For the past few years, I’ve been telling myself that “when I grow up” I want to be a writer. It wasn’t until recently it dawned on me that I already am and have been for quite some time. It all started, for me, when I was in elementary school and my great-granny gave me a Virginia Slim’s calendar (hey, smoking was cool in the 80’s). The pages were peppered with notes of what happened to me that day (I actually still have it) .
As I grew older, I tried writing poetry. I even wrote, albeit not very well, a novella while in high school. But, I didn’t understand or appreciate my fascination with reading and the use of words. I certainly didn’t realize my compulsion to do just what I’m doing now – writing.
In fact, when college came, I ignored it. Writing wasn’t a real career. As anyone that writes knows, being published and making an independent living off of your work is not automatic or guaranteed. So, I didn’t consider it a real choice. Rather, I’ve been “on the fence” about writing professionally for the past ten years. Dabbling, but not really committing to my passion to create.
Though I’m still in the early stages of writing a book, I’ve finally recognized that I am already a writer. Just because I’m not making an income or established as a known author doesn’t make this any less of a truth.
So, when did you realize you were a “real” writer?