I am a writer.
It feels weird to own that. Somehow, I’ve gotten away from thinking of myself as a writer and have begun thinking of myself as a “person who writes very well.” It’s not the ability or the skill that’s hard to embrace. It’s the identity.
There’s a lot of self-doubt that comes with writing. It seeps in; even as I type this, I’m wondering why I bought a domain and am bothering with this at all. The point of having a blog used to be sharing ideas and building community. Is that still the point? I don’t know.
All the things that I’ve said to other people, to other writers — “You don’t need anyone’s permission to write.” “You’re still a writer, even if 1000 people don’t visit your blog everyday.” — are coming back to haunt me as I deal with my own shit when it comes to writing.
This is what it means to stand in your truth. To just do it because you feel called to do it.
And there is a sense of power and resistance in that. To know that you have stories and poems and opinions inside of you that you want to give voice to, especially because giving voice to things can feel dangerous sometimes. I’m saying to myself that I don’t need permission, or the desire to launch a brand, or to have some grand experiment.
I can do this because I damn well feel like it. For some people, blogging and this kind of writing is a luxury, just omphaloskepsis. Maybe it is. But as vices and luxuries go, I don’t mind having writing in that category.
I am a writer.