When someone asks if my plan is to be a writer, I break out into intellectual hives.
I imagine writer’s block, bad reviews, and creative angst wasted over a double cappuccino.
I whisper behind my back at my own fraud, “She’s not a writer. She lucked out with a moment of inspiration and turned it into a story.”
But then the self-deprecation also seems contrived, “Why should I read your work, you are not a writer. You’re just a silly girl who likes to tell stories.”
But now that I’ve started writing the stories down, I can’t help but write – because I want to hear my stories too.
So I guess I’ll call myself a writer, and cringe when I say it, and hope that you (who reads my words and would therefor know better than anyone) will forgive the vanity; and excuse my imprecision with the semi colon.