I Am a Writer

“What do you do?” He asked. The ubiquitous question produced deeper thoughts and questions than were likely intended. The panelists in my head weighed the pros and cons of sharing the answer I longed to say out loud.

The words ‘I am a writer’ have rarely passed through my lips.

Even though I do write, which would intrinsically make me a writer, I’m hesitant to claim the title.

Long before I knew what it meant to be a writer, before I possessed the fine motor skills required, I composed stories that played like movies in my head.

But I have never been able to bring myself to possess the word, writer.

I am a writer.

It’s a word, but in my heart it’s a title that I don’t deserve, and feel afraid to claim. It isn’t just a word. It’s a badge to be earned, a ribbon to be won. I have neither earned, nor won.

The voices for and against are the voices of my high school sophomore English teacher, and my college English teachers.

Regardless of how hard I worked in 10th grade English, I couldn’t earn anything higher than a 54 on an essay. In college (which I took in lieu of 11th & 12th grade high school English), my professors raved over my writing. Once, she interrupted the semester final to read a portion of my essay, which I had written one hour before and turned in one week late. She gave me a 100, even after taking off points for tardiness.

I have never been able to account for or reconcile the two extremes.

What do you do? Is a simple question, but the answer isn’t quite as simple.

I answered, ‘Well, I handle the billing for a logistics company, but that’s not who I am.’

As I described who I am, my words danced around but never explicitly stated, ‘I am a writer’.

I think that until I do it well enough that someone wants to pay me for my work, I will have a hard time claiming the title.

For now, in the same way that a liar is someone who lies, I am a writer. Even if nobody likes my words or wants to commission my work or publish it.

I am a writer.