Many writers are weary of calling themselves writers. After all, what qualifies one to be a (pause for dramatic breath) a “writer”?
Does producing a train of mysteries like Agatha Christie make you one? Maybe being published by glossy magazines? Or simply by collecting the most blog hits on your experiments in the kitchen?
Or how about when you admit you are a writer around a group of strangers, surprising yourself? A declaration like that will culminate into a moment, that moment being the ability to recognize your own drive for writing.
Then you begin in earnest, with gusto, writing about all things that matter and some that don’t, starting a blog, or pestering friends and family to read your short stories or poems.
For a writer every experience is worth documenting. A writer pens thoughts of a nasty break up, an extraterrestrial fantasy, a half-remembered dream, a piece of short fiction, the skeleton of a novel, a memoir about one’s mother, or poems about one’s cat in the monsoons.
A writer will have the willingness, even a compulsion, to re-imagine sentences, let thoughts stretch and bounce back into a new form.
Is that enough to know you are a writer?
The moment when your chest is puffed out in bravery, waiting for the arrows of a critique to come hit your text, knowing well they can only poke but never destroy.
That’s when you know you are a writer.
What do you think? When did you know you were a writer?
Share your experiences with us. Leave us a comment. 🙂