I started this blog nearly four years ago. At the time I was emerging from the literary closet ever so cautiously to determine if my talent and my ambition would be welcomed in the larger world, or not.
Those hesitant steps led to bigger and greater things, but I still did not feel that I could call myself a writer.
I’ve been writing since I was eleven years old. My 43rd birthday is less than a month away, that makes for 32 years of writing.
But, still, I find myself hesitant to tell people I am a writer. I feel that I haven’t earned the right to enter into that echelon of respected gods. Name your favorite author and those are the ones I am talking about; J. R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, W.B. Yeats, Oscar Wilde, etc. I am unworthy to enter into their domain.
Or, am I? I was at birthday dinner a few days ago with some of my closest friends and I was explaining to them that I’m meeting with my publisher in a few weeks to discuss my first novella series. She is a local publisher, and I signed my first contract with her. I also informed them that I had started the ghostwriting novel that I was commissioned to write.
I heard the words that were being uttered from my mouth as if from a distant dream, and I actually exclaimed, “I’m a writer.” It hit me. The proclamation tapped itself out like the letters of an antique typewriter across my forehead. “I am a writer.”
Even now, I feel the revelation, like well a revelation. Thundering and loud. As if God has branded me inside and out with the identifying stamp, “I am a writer.” I type it gleefully as my two school age children argue in the background as I try finish this blog.
When I started, I convinced myself that a writer just writes. One word after another. That was the secret world I held within. But, that secret world has now seeped out into the exterior world full of criticisms, pitfalls, opportunities, and recognition. It’s one hell of a ride. But, I’m ready for it. Because, I am a writer.