So I’m a writer now?
When did it happen?
When I started the blog?
The first time I got paid?
Was it buying the laptop for the express purpose of being able to write wherever and whenever I needed to?
Was it when I put the “writing services” tab on my business website?
Was it the first time I got a swell of reaction for the words I’d sequenced and tended. Birthing prose that held within it the power to evoke and emote.
It’s hard to know.
I’ve been writing my whole life, but somewhere in the last year being someone who writes turn into being a writer and it was such a subtle transition that I missed it when it happened.
In becoming a writer I discovered a community – a shared need to take formless internal compulsions and match then with their soulmated word then escort them to a party in their honor.
But with being a writer also comes that deeply embedded but painfully sharp worry over the day when words are necessary but elusive. Anxiety over that time when you have commit your words to someone and they don’t come when you call them.
It will happen. Has happened at times already but with little consequence.
But when I say that writing is what I do, when I have broadcast my ability and my intent, there comes with it the fear that a day may come when I don’t know how deliver what I’ve promised.
When that day comes, I hope that I will face it the same way I’ve faced other commitments that I’ve needed to meet if I happened to be in a state of inspirationless fatigue. Deep breath, dig in…and just do.
Because if you are a writer you write. Just like when you are a mom you parent. Or when you are a speech therapist you treat. If it is what I am then it is what I do.
And there, my friends, is joy.