Anyone can be a writer. Everyone has a story. Only some are brave enough to put pen to paper (or uhhh fingers to keyboard).
I say this all to the time to people when I tell them I’m a writer. By definition, a writer is a “person who has written something or who writes in a particular way” (source: Google), so I have every right to call myself that. Do I feel right when I say it, though? Hell no.
Aside from my blog, I’ve never been published anywhere. That used to be my prerequisite to calling myself a writer, but it’s really so much simpler than that. I put myself out there week in and week out so that an unknown entity can feel what I feel and see what I see.
Writers are a strange bunch. We show an amazing confidence in our pieces. Bravery is defined by how much of ourselves we share with complete strangers. We are also modest and consider ourselves poor examples of what we claim to be. Wut r werds? How spel? Where does this, comma, go?
I’m pretty proud to call myself a writer, though, even if I feel like a fraud. Writing buddies are the best people in the world. They praise your work when you feel it’s shallow and poorly executed. They want to ensure your success, as well, by providing healthy criticism when they feel you have missed the mark. But most of all, they’re honest. When you’re feeling down, they remind you that they have the same doubts, same fears. They remind you of all the awesome stuff you have done and what impact your writing has had on theirs.
So in place of a post about my remorse for remaining unpublished, I want to shout out to all the writing buddies out there. You guys are my peeps and I wouldn’t know what to do without you. Keep being awesome.