In the first grade I announced that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I started writing “books” like crazy. For the rest of my life, up to this point, I have constantly wondered at what point I would finally feel like I could call myself a writer.
- *writes several novels about talking animals which are “borrowed” indefinitely by a teacher, and never seen again* Well, you only have to write to be a writer. Am I a writer yet?
- *attends Young Authors Conference 4 years in a row* Am I a writer yet?
- *submits fiction of such poor quality to literary magazines that no response is ever received* Well, rejection is part of the process. Am I a writer yet?
- *journals religiously for 13 years, stops cold turkey, unceremoniously dumps all journals in trash five years later* Am I a writer yet?
- *subscribes to The Writer magazine in middle school* Am I a writer yet?
- *starts literary zine, to publish self* That’s as indie as it gets. Am I a writer yet?
- *blogs for five years straight* I sure have output. Am I a writer yet?
- *wins first NaNoWriMo* I finally finished a novel! Am I a writer yet?
- *buys digital voice recorder because writing on a pad stuck to the steering wheel isn’t working anymore* Am I a writer yet?
- *revises novel for two years* Am I a writer yet?
- *critiquer accuses me of aping Salinger* Am I a writer yet?
- *gets harassed by another author on Goodreads for leaving a two star review* Am I a writer yet?
- *independently publishes novel* Am I a writer yet?
- *sells just five copies of book but now awash in people coming out of the woodwork to “let” me read their unfinished, five year-old, hardcopy-only manuscripts* HO BOY NOW I’M A WRITER!