I don’t suppose I’ll be the only blogger participating in the A-Z challenge that will post ‘W’ for ‘Writer's,' but am the only one who has a slight niggle inside about calling myself a writer?
It's hard to call yourself a writer when you don't have anything published.
If we're going to be precise, I suppose I'm a wannabe writer. I write, that's what writer's do (granted, I might be doing more blogging than writing at the moment - lol) but as a rule, I write every day. In fact,my family will tell you I'm a full time writer and sit at the laptop 24/7. That's not strictly true. I sleep in between. And eat. I just don't get paid for writing, yet, although I can't think of a writer I've met yet, who does it for the money.
I've written a novel. It wasn't good enough so I've re-written it. Three times at the last count. And I've started another. Well, I have the first couple of chapters. Then there are the jotted ramblings, characters, settings for another, I don't know how many, novels.
I can't tell you how frustrating it was when I had my latest flare up and subsequent surgery and couldn't write. There were times when I thought I might go seriously mad! I have to write or I become irritable and grumpy, and bored, and my brain won't shut down when I go to bed.
There’s nothing I prefer to do than write. If I was shipwrecked on a desert island, I'd need my laptop. Me and my best friend.
But then I can never be lonely while I have an internet connection, and the company of all of you lovely people, and most of you, other writers. You're the only people who really 'get' me. We get each other.
Writing is not just about being published. It's about a way of life - living, breathing, and sleeping writing. That's why I was up at 4.30am this morning, typing this. Sometimes, you have to give in to the inspiration for the next blog, or the next few paragraphs of the book.
Whenever I meet anyone and they ask me what I do for a living I rush to tell them that I had to retire because of ill health and I don't work. Sometimes I add quietly that I write, I'm working on my novel. I usually have two responses. 'Oh, I've always wanted to write a novel,' is quite common. I smile inwardly when I hear this, and ponder whether they've ever sat, day after day, night after night, typing, editing, crafting, toiling, all for a few sentences, which if they're still not good enough will be cut anyway.
The other comment I get, fires my belly, and spurs me on.
'Good for you,' they'll say. 'I wish I could write. Let me have a copy when you're published, will you?'
At this point, I'll relay the tale to hubby.
'Well, I'm not a writer, yet,' I say.
'Yes, you are,' he responds, then he rolls his eyes at the dishes stacked up on the kitchen worktop, and turns the oven on to make his own tea...
Until another day
Bye for now
This Week in Essays
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