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I consider myself a writer.
I've never been published. I've never earned any money for my writing. In fact, I've spent a small fortune in pursuit of an education that would help me become a
better writer.
I have no desire to write the great American novel, or a collection of poetry or even a short story in a magazine.
I've never submitted a piece of my writing for a competition or penned a letter to the editor.
I don't think any of these things are necessary, though, for me to claim the title of "writer" for myself.
I live a "writerly" life, if such a thing truly exists. I love language and exult in its eloquent use. I read every single day and am bereft without a book. I write every single day, whether it's a post on a blog, a thought or critique or response to something I've read or seen or heard, a note in my children's lunch boxes, or an email to a friend. I notice things, not so much in colors or scents or pictures, but in words. I compose in my head, turning the things I see or hear or touch or smell into language that I can use to share my experiences with others.
I am forever in an effort to put the ineffable into words.
I love a good story, whether it comes from my own experience or someone else's. I have learned - and continue to practice - the craft of taking the ordinary events in life and focusing in on them, highlighting specific moments or actions, and writing them in such a way that captures their essence, either for myself or for someone else. Some of the highest praise I've ever received for my writing has come from people who, after reading something I've written, have told me that they know
exactly what I meant.
I don't have many creative outlets. I can't sing or paint or build things in any way that brings me any joy. I can write, though, and it is in writing that I find out who I am, what I think, and what is most important to me.
I am a writer.