There, I said it. But those words do not come easy.
I don’t know why it’s so hard to admit to being a writer. To be able to own it. It almost feels like arrogance as I fight to make that claim out loud. Claiming to be a writer sounds like I’m admitting to being good. Published. And even though I have, enough to be called a writer? And what is the required amount of published articles before one can be called a writer?
It’s not hard to admit I’m a runner. I run a lot. Not marathons, but I run. Therefore, I am a runner.
Or that I’m a Christian. Now that’s a title I wear with joy. Being a Christian is a fundamental part of who I am. I’m not a perfect Christian by any means, in fact a constant work in progress, daily. But I am a Christian none-the-less.
A person who loves books and reads a lot is not only a reader, but frequently labeled an avid reader. Someone who takes a lot of pictures is a photographer. Maybe not professionally, but still a photographer, yes? Or a person who draws or paints is an artist, true?
In fact, if it were professionally, it would be a job. A vocation versus an avocation. But that’s all that would change. That wouldn’t change the fact that the writing is happening.
Writing may not be considered a justifiable activity to non-writing folk, especially if a financial outcome isn’t the reason it’s being pursued, which makes it critical to have other writers in your inner circle. If your writing makes the difference in even one life, then it’s justifiable. Worthwhile. A gift to behold.
Writing is what brings me peace and joy. Well, usually. And it’s something I practice and work at daily. That makes me a writer. And I can own that because it’s what I do. A lot.
I am a writer. And being able to claim that feels good.
All is Grace.