So, so many times I’ve had this discussion:
What makes you a writer? Well, I write. Okay, but when did you first start calling yourself a writer? Oh. That. When I was published.
See? I’m an oxymoron. Oxy- part optional.
But what I mean is that to be a writer, you write. That word, WRITER, then describes who you are. But writing as a career, well, that’s so different – and still FAR, FAR off for me. Justine Larbalestier (whose blog I visit nearly every day) posted THIS about the whole dilemma. Career versus Identity. Lucky the people who are both. But really? Lucky any of us who love the sound of the tapping keys. Lucky all of us who hear dialog in our heads. Lucky us who create characters worthy of our love and disdain and concern. Lucky us who discover the joy of being WRITERS.
(8) Comments for this blog
Ohhh, that was a great post. I love that she mentions that if she didn’t get paid to write she would still write. Love that! =)
Ohhh, that was a great post. I love that she mentions that if she didn’t get paid to write she would still write. Love that! =)
My problem is that I feel dishonest when I call myself a ‘writer’ because usually, when people ask what I am or what I do, they’re asking how I make my living.
But these days I invest more time in writing than I do any other single pursuit EXCEPT the way I make my living. That’s gotta count for something, right??
My problem is that I feel dishonest when I call myself a ‘writer’ because usually, when people ask what I am or what I do, they’re asking how I make my living.
But these days I invest more time in writing than I do any other single pursuit EXCEPT the way I make my living. That’s gotta count for something, right??
I get that sometimes too but I know I’m a writer. I know it because I live by words. I find joy in them, I understand my world through them, and I can’t get enough of them. I read. I write. I’m happy. That’s proof enough for me.
I get that sometimes too but I know I’m a writer. I know it because I live by words. I find joy in them, I understand my world through them, and I can’t get enough of them. I read. I write. I’m happy. That’s proof enough for me.
Writer is such a tricky word, isn’t it? It’s one of those words in the English language that has innumerable possible definitions. For me, my claim to that title is still a bit wibbly-wobbly in my own mind. Sometimes I leave and breathe the written word and I’m overcome, daily, by the urge to write. Then, unpublished though I may be, I feel like a Writer. Other days I drift along and ignore the desire…try to pretend it’s not important because I’m SCARED that it is. On those days I don’t feel like a writer at all. Those? Are the bad days.
Hmmm….thought-provoking post, Becca!
Writer is such a tricky word, isn’t it? It’s one of those words in the English language that has innumerable possible definitions. For me, my claim to that title is still a bit wibbly-wobbly in my own mind. Sometimes I leave and breathe the written word and I’m overcome, daily, by the urge to write. Then, unpublished though I may be, I feel like a Writer. Other days I drift along and ignore the desire…try to pretend it’s not important because I’m SCARED that it is. On those days I don’t feel like a writer at all. Those? Are the bad days.
Hmmm….thought-provoking post, Becca!