People who don’t know me well often think that because I dare call myself a writer, I must hole myself up and not sleep and hunch over a keyboard (or a typewriter) and bang away at it instead of, you know, living.
If that were the definition of a writer, then I would be a very bad writer. I suppose that other writers (because, like African-Americans and Jews, we apparently all know each other) would give me a scarlet “B” to wear on my coat for “bad”.
Cough. (On the other side of cyberspace, I’m rolling my eyes.)
In truth, lately I have been a very good writer. I sent out two applications for summer writing workshops and a contest entry. All of those submissions feature work that I feel strongly about. I want someone else to read it. I want someone to pay it the attention it deserves.
I also have started a new piece. All because instead of hoping for some magical eight-hour block of time to devote to my writing, I’m writing instead in fits and spurts when I have a moment. I’m forcing myself to write when I have short moments to myself–and it’s working.
It makes me feel better about calling myself a writer. And maybe, just maybe, someone else will think enough of what I’ve submitted to call me one, too.
