There are times when I actually feel like a writer. I sit at keyboard, BIC, and write– even though there are distractions, even though I have to leave sentences half-done and race out the door to pick up children from school or to place toddler on the toilet, even though I have lunch cooking in the kitchen, even though my brain is fully aware that what I am writing will not remain that way forever because it is icky, jumbled, boring prose. Some days I ignore my inner critic. I just keep writing. I ignore the holes in my plot (or the non-existent plot) and get all my thoughts out on paper before they evaporate in a puff of smoke.
Today is one of those days.
Lately, I’ve considered myself more of a writer than I used to. I remember being at Chautauqua and David Harrison saying something to the effect of “whatever else you may be, you ARE a writer.” It rang so true for me because it made “writing”out to be a part of my makeup. Who I am as a person. It made me feel justified in spending time writing stories, even if they would never be published. I *do* want to be published someday. But regardless, I am a writer. I have something to say, even if it’s just to get these voices out of my head! Accepting that fact makes me a more balanced person. There is an inherent value in just. being. a. writer.
I know there will be those of you who read this and think, that’s not enough for me. I’m pursuing being published. And I understand that. There are days when I feel that way too. But on days when I am able to just do it and take joy in the process, I feel like it’s enough for this moment.