Friday, April 4, 2014

Writer

 . . . one who writes. 



At what point is it fair to call myself a writer? I know people who write for a living. I've read and studied writers. I've even taught classes about works of literature. When do I shift from journaling and blogging to being a writer?

I started this blog nearly 5 years ago. I didn't have the faintest idea of what I was doing. I knew I wanted to write about the abuse I endured, but I was unclear on my motivation. I wanted to believe it was altruistic. Something to help other people, but really I was such a mess I didn't believe I had anything to share. I needed to share. I needed to get the words out and maybe hear back from somebody telling me I was okay.

I still don't have the faintest idea what I'm doing. My blog flows along with my mood, stress, and joy. I write about where I am on any given day. What I'm cooking or baking or making. I write about PTSD and the long lasting effects of child abuse. I write about my marriage -- it's ups and downs. I write (a little) about my kids and their journeys.

Maybe, just maybe being a writer is no different than being a person or a parent or a wife. Just doing those things -- breathing, birthing and raising, loving and working -- is what makes me those things.

So I write . . . because I am a writer.

linking up with Five Minute Friday


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