I am a Writer

I am a writer.

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I taught myself how to read when I was four. I started writing short stories in kindergarten. I don’t remember illustrating those stories; I’ve never been much of an artist. But I have been a writer. For as long as I can remember. It’s not really something I do per say. It’s just an integral piece of who I am. Who I’ve always been.

When I am sad, ecstatic, frustrated, irate or just about anything else, the first thing I do is write. I constantly have pieces of stories and dialogue running through my head. I am constantly figuring out how to put into words anything I may be experiencing at any given moment. Not being able to stop long enough to transcribe those parts and pieces of stories begging to be written is why I started this blog. But I’m finding, lately especially, that there is less story writing and more journaling happening here.

Which is fine I suppose, although I cannot imagine that it’s all that interesting to read. Not to mention, I’m sure that I’ve given you whiplash the last couple of months. What with the not so very subtle glow swinging to the utmost defeat of motherhood and the bubbling joy of discovery to feeling like I’m having my feet pulled out from under me by sickness or bad days or whatever. I know I’ve been feeling whiplashed, so I can’t even imagine how your head must be swimming.

But even though I am so relatively sure that my posts for the past 4-6 weeks don’t make a lick of sense, I’m still a writer. Even though I think the majority of my posts for most of the time I’ve been engaged in this project have been silly and self indulgent, I’m still a writer. Even though I have the tiniest handful of readers, very few of which are moved to leave comments on my daily blathering, I am still a writer.

Through the up, down, good, bad and in between there will always be a piece of me that knows exactly who and what I am.

I am a writer.