I’m a writer.
I’m not just a writer because I call myself one. Writing a blog doesn’t necessarily make one a writer, either. Yes, by definition a writer is someone who writes — but for me, the titles goes deeper than that.
When I’m alone in my car, or taking a shower, or walking along the shore, my mind is rarely idle. Instead, I’m busy constructing sentences. Listing adjectives. Creating characters. Writing blog posts. I can spend twenty minutes of my life, or more, steeped in thought, ferreting out the best way to phrase a description of the morning fog clinging to the trees.
And I don’t just write in my head. I have notebooks scattered everywhere throughout my life, just waiting for the words to pour onto paper, in hopes that they will find a home in a more permanent situation soon. Scraps of poetry, bits of story line, a jotted note about a dream I had once—all waiting to take shape into a more concrete, linear form.
I have a love affair with language. I am mesmerized by words: the fluidity of them, the meaning of them, the beauty of them. I collect quotes — whether serious or thoughtful or funny–that speak to me. My house is decorated with words. Wooden signs with written reminders to dream, to fly, to live and love.
Words give me strength. They can be anchors, or buoys, or vessels. They can be wielded as weapons, or wrought with grief. They can be witty and pointed, or placid and dull.
Words are loneliness, and love. They are epic, and trivial. Words are limiting. Words are freeing. They are weird and awkward, or subtle and shifting.
Words are romantic. Give me a bouquet of words–well-spoken, meaningful, lovely words–over a handful of flowers any day.
I may not have a shelf of books with my name on the jacket cover, or be recognized among my peers as a starving artists paving her way with words. I may not spend twenty-three hours a day hunched over my keyboard, painstakingly pounding out the next great American novel. In truth, I may not even be that great at writing.
But nonetheless, I am a writer. My destiny is with the written word.
I can’t help it. Words captivate me. I am their greatest fan.