Photo Credit: Steph922

Even as I sit here with nothing but a title on this too-white-and-too-blank word document, there’s a nervous energy that stops me from putting my fingers to the keys. Between distracting questions like, “what am I even trying to say,” and, “will I say it the best?” I click on Twitter and Facebook. The places where creativity goes to die, and a constant reminder that now everyone has a voice and an outlet. They are places to procrastinate while simultaneously being drained of all creative energies.

Sometimes, writing comes naturally to me. And I mean sometimes. And when it does, I nail it, and I know it’s good. That’s okay to say, right? The words are placed in my mind and hands and I become a vessel for the message, like the Greeks believed with their muses. But in actuality, it’s my life experiences coming together, matching up, linking together, and I am able to place it on the page—stringing letters together to say something important.

Other times, well, the cursor mocks me with every blink on the screen.

When is it appropriate to call yourself a writer? Legend has it that writers can be anyone who deems themselves as such. Being a writer is often desirable, and many people claim that they wish to become one. Yet, the title still comes with connotations and stigmas. “Writer” means you have no job and no money and spend lots of time in your pajamas drinking coffee with a dog at your feet and cat hair on your blouse, occasionally haunting the local coffee shop, hiding from the sun and reality and listening to a perfectly crafted Spotify playlist titled “While Writing and Thinking.”

I even made business cards this year, putting every word possible on it. Except “writer.” “Copywriter, copyeditor, lover of words and stories” is what they say. Why didn’t I just put WRITER, I AM A WRITER.

Because I never feel like I am actually writing. My essays, musings, blog posts, and stories are the equivalent to in-class notebook doodles next to full-blown watercolor paintings hanging in the Museum of Fine Arts. My word-vomit splattered on the page is nothing compared to the thought out and life changing stories that are already have a home.

What can I offer to the conversation that hasn’t been offered before?

Even if you actually get something of worth down onto the screen or paper, you have to find people to read it. Which brings us to the philosophical points of: Can someone be a writer without any readers? Do my parents and closest friends count as a readership or do I need to win the approval of the vast land called “The Internet.”

There are glimpses, moments throughout my life that I think, “oh, maybe I am a writer?” Lost and disconnected friends saying at our five year reunion that they absolutely love my voice, or at the annual LeakyCon convention when other fans- people that I’ve never met- say they loved my piece about my Deathly Hallows release day disaster.

Let’s be honest here. Being paid for writing would make an impact. Feeling like a writer comes with feeling like it’s a career, a source of income. I am a part-time bartender at Alex and Ani, I am a phone operator at the House of Blues — those are the things I am because I am compensated for them. But I don’t WANT to be those things; I want to be a Writer.

And then there is Fear.

I’m afraid my stories aren’t good enough, especially when it comes to fiction. I am afraid to share them, even now, after taking a fiction workshop, which I excelled in. I’ve had certain stories and characters in my head since middle school and at this point, being 24 years old, these characters feel sacred to me.

I am afraid to start a novel from beginning to end. I am afraid I will look silly. I am afraid I don’t know how to write, and I’m afraid I don’t know how to write well. I am afraid I only know how to use italics to emphasize my point. I am afraid of the editing process. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, has a quote that stuck with me. “Creativity can ONLY coexist alongside Fear.” And it’s true. There is nothing more frightening than a blank word document, and a whirlwind of thoughts trapped inside your head.

I was hoping by the end of this piece, I would be able to say, “Yes, I am a Writer.” And, for real, I would really love to end it like that. To bring my readers and myself through this long-winded and important journey during this post that can lead me and other word-lovers like me to this moment of “yes, of course we are writers. I am a writer. I am a Writer. I AM A WRITER. I am one now and I have been one all along,” But I’m not there yet. Being a writer comes with a level of responsibility I am not ready to own yet—the responsibility to write often, to write truthfully, to write with consequence.