A Writer Who Writes

7 06 2012

I have a confession to make.

Sometimes, I’m not very nice to myself. In fact, there are days that I am really mean. I never really noticed it. Or, I guess I never thought of it. My feelings have been hurt many times. I like to blame other people. This one doesn’t listen. Another said something that hurt my feelings. I feel left out of things. I can find lots of people to blame for my being unhappy. Sometimes, it is true. Others, not so much. Usually, I am my biggest bully.

Why do I bring this up today?

Because I figure it is time to stand up to myself. It is time to stop a particular lie in its tracks and move on.

You see, I majored in creative writing with the intention of being a writer.  I was going to write books, stories, poems, and I was going to be published. Life was going to be great. And then it wasn’t. And I stopped writing. Or, that’s the way I saw it.

This January, I decided to pick up the pen and try again. I started this blog. I bought new notebooks and pens. I read everything I could about writing. I started calling myself a writer. And here is where the particular bit of lying and bullying comes in.

At the risk of you thinking I am crazy, here is a bit of my inner dialogue.

Me: I am a writer!

Inner critic: hahahaha

Me: What? I am a writer.

Inner critic: Sorry, I can’t catch my breath from laughing so hard. What did you say you were?

Me: (starting to falter a bit) A writer.

Inner critic: That’s what I thought you said. A writer who doesn’t write. Now that’s quite a concept.

Me: I am a writer.

Inner critic: Who doesn’t write.

And so the conversation goes, day after day.  It gets worse on days that I actually don’t write anything.

But today, I was reading a post from a blog I follow, and I realized something quite important.

Drumroll, please…

In the ten years between the time I handed in my last assigned story and the day I intentionally started writing again, I had never really stopped.

What? Never?

Nope. Never.

I have actually written enough journal entries to fill volumes, grocery and to-do lists, letters to friends and emails, notes to coworkers and room mates, Christmas cards and birthday, job applications…

These may not be things that will ever be shared or published, but guess what, Inner Critic? Every single one of them counts. I am a writer who writes. In fact, I can’t seem to stop myself.



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