“So, what do you do?”
Answering that question has brought on all kinds of emotions through the years.
No matter what job I had as an adult, I always wanted to be a writer. Claiming that I am a writer has always had its challenges, though.
I once said that I am a poet when an aunt asked me that question and she burst out into a knee-slapping fit of laughter. She said poets suck and don’t make any money.
All that did was reaffirm my dislike of her (to put it mildly).
The first time I wrote “writer” as my profession (on a hotel form) I felt like a cheat. A hack. A charlatan. I hadn’t published anything at the time other than my blog posts, and some unpaid poetry and some short stories. I didn’t feel that I could claim the title of “writer” without publishing a novel at a major publishing house (perfectionism much?).
Lately, I have taken to firmly state “I am a writer!” whenever someone asks me what I do. I can say it without blushing fiercely too!
I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a bloody writer!
I have written blog posts every day this month. I have edited one small nonfiction project and cm editing a novel. Evernote has a list a mile long with ideas for new blog posts and fiction. It continues to be updated with it.
The small notepad I always carry with me is constantly filling up with ideas.
It is almost 10 am on Monday the 29th and I have written 3/7 (including this one) of my posts for the week. If I am not a writer, what the hell am I?