I am a writer. No really. I am. Promise.

What’s that?  Where am I published?  Weeeeelllllll …


For those of us who write, it’s difficult to explain to those who don’t write the justification one’s existence.  Or, simply, one’s title.

“Writer” seems to be reserved for those lucky few who have broken into the realm of the published.  This seems to be the rule:

Thou shalt not declare oneself a writer lest ye be published.

Or paid.

It’s not exactly chiseled on a stone tablet somewhere, but we know this to be true.

Who came up with this rule?  Some old dude who’s been getting paid for his writing since he published the neighborhood newspaper when he was 10?  (Yeah, that was Stephen King, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t make up the rule.)

I envy those who have the gall to call themselves a writer, even if the way they make their living is by waiting tables or answering phones.  Because, really, your job doesn’t make you the person you are … right?  (I cringe just typing that, because the values instilled by my middle-class American childhood suggest differently.)

OPI has a nail color called “I’m not really a waitress.”  And I love it.  Because for years I served food by night and wrote by day and I considered myself … a waitress.  But on the inside, I was not.  Because I wrote fiction.  Every day.  And I was happy.  But I also dreamed of the day that I could officially call myself a writer.

And now, I write for a living.  I write bland, monotonous reports read by men in stiff blue suits, some who have never read a novel in their lives – just the Cliffs notes.  The only perk I have gained is the ability to confidently tell people at cocktail parties that “I am a writer.”  But it’s not worth it.  I work about 50 hours a week and I don’t write fiction anymore.  And I am not happy.  (And I don’t even GO to cocktail parties.)

So this blog is my attempt to get back to myself; my fight to reclaim the writer I once was.

And maybe, could be again.

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1 Comment

  1. I’m moving. *Sniff* | I am a writer ... dangit.

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