It has dawned on me recently that I can really call myself a writer.
Before, writing seemed like something that only real writers did. The writers who wrote every day and had things published and had fancy agents and knew other authors and talked about literature over coffee every day.
I am a lot of things. I’m a dancer, musician, reader, observer, friend, sister and daughter. I’m a mystery to those who don’t take the time to really know me, and I like it that way.
But a shiny stigma always shone around the term writer and in my mind I never quite fit. I’ve never published anything and I don’t exactly make a living off my writing.
However — I love writing. I’ve been writing at least a little every day at work, and it’s not my subject of choice, but it’s practice. And NaNoWriMo is my favorite part of the year. I think I get more excited for NaNo than I even do for Christmas! This coming year will be my sixth year and it cannot come soon enough. If I can work with the amazing NaNo team someday, it will be my dream job.
I’ve written 250,000 words, at the bare minimum, in the last five years. So what if I haven’t been published yet? So what if almost no one has seen my writing? So what if I think half the things I write are absolute crap?
I write and I love writing. Therefore, I’m a writer.