Yesterday, when asked by a friend of a friend what I "do," I paused, and then, for maybe the first time ever answered, "I'm a writer." Not, "I do this but I WANT to be a writer," or "I am hopelessly attempting to be a writer" or any such disclaimer. I said, "I'm a writer"and then went on to describe what I write.
Of course I felt guilty, as if I didn't deserve the word. As if I shouldn't besmirch the same lauded title that could also be attached to Dostoevsky, Tolstoy or, heck, J.K. Rowling. In my head, on loop played the same obsessive thought: Am I a writer? I mean, I get paid to write now, but does that make me a bona fide writer? Does one have to be paid to write something more substantial than articles about remodeling and descriptions of couture handbags to be a writer? Or would even writing books qualify me? Would I ever comfortably classify myself as a writer if I wasn't also living in a flat somewhere, subsisting on coffee and cigarettes, living a half life of endless nights and manic fits of creation? Can a 'writer' be comfortable?
Another night of not sleeping. Tonight, I'll take a pill.
2 comments:
Yeah, I can't say it either. But at least we have insomnia to lend us credibility.
I can call my self a Graphic Designer, but not an artist. You tell me that I'm and artist all the time, so maybe I should start calling you a writer. It might not make you more comfortable with the lofty ideals you've attached to the label, but it would be a very accurate and deserved description, considering your abilities.
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