In one of my Facebook writer groups, the question was asked – “When did you start calling yourself a writer?”
One of the Writers of the group offers up a question and I attempt to answer them daily. Sometimes my answers are witty, or simple. Sometimes my answers are thoughtful. Today, when this question was asked, I started out witty. “I am?”. This was answered by two of the more active members (one of who which offered up the question to begin with) reminding me that I am. “You writer, therefore you are a writer.”
I know I am. I state it now daily. My Facebook page, website, Twitter, and Instagram are all labeled Kris Star dash Writer. This is the foundation of how I see myself. It is a wonderful thing to actually see myself as a writer. It wasn’t a title I instantly claimed. I actually turned away from it. I didn’t feel worthy of it.
To feel I have the right to call myself this – Writer. Two finished books under my belt. Seven other books hidden away within my computer and files, I know that
I am a writer.
I don’t write for ‘fun’. For that classic idea of ‘oh I’ll write a book someday’. At times it is fun and I have written a book, but it isn’t why I do it. It isn’t a whim or passing desire.
I think to call one’s self a writer, you have to actually invest more than your joy into it. I have stared at pages and cried. I have hated myself for weeks over grammar mistakes. Or not feeling good enough. I have hated every word I written at times. I have wanted to smash computers. I have written dull boring scenes that needed to be written to move the story along. I have edited and re-edited the same four words seven times to simply find no correct placement and delete them out of frustration. I have hated and loved.
So, when did I decide I was actually a writer? Below is the answer I gave to this question.
Now that I think about it. I’ve always had a need to tell a story. Be it art, acting, or writing. I started a novel (something like V.C. Andrews – an author I was obsessed with at the time) when I was around 13 or so. It never got past 20 pages. Those 20 pages took me over 4 years to write, and I said more than once that I wanted to be published by 15. 15 came and went. I then said I wanted to be published by 16. That left with 15. I stopped dreaming of writing, and focused on the visual arts in High School. I had that need to produce the images in my head outward for others to see.
Even after graduating from college with a BA in English, I didn’t see myself as a writer. Short stories, novels, poems littered my room and my education. Even with a few Nanowrimos under my belt. I told people I wrote. I told people I ‘dreamed’ of publishing a book. But I didn’t call myself a writer.
The moment I decided I was a writer, was the day I was writing Master’s Degree application essay. I had to explain my reason for writing. When it came down to it, my reason for writing is there are voices and stories in my head that want their stories told. This, in a sense, always sounds crazy to say to a non-writer. “I hear voices!”
But as I wrote that essay. I realized that I was a writer. I was an artist. I was a creator. However I can offer up the stories and images in my head to the world I will. I find that my talent leans toward the creative world of writing, instead of visual art. I can illustrate a picture of the world through word better than paint.
I am a writer.