As a kid, I always wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Now, here I am all grown up. I’m a mother, an employee, a taxi service, a planning coordinator… The list goes on. Notice the one thing I didn’t mention? That’s right: writer.
But I am. A writer, that is.
Those other things are faces I wear, tasks I perform– they’re part of who I have become. I didn’t list myself as a writer because a writer isn’t something you become. Writers are born.
Parenthood is a choice, and all the faces of that role are choices (whether conscious choices or not), whereas being a writer is not. Choosing to hone that innate drive, that’s another thing.
See, when we’re born as writers, we don’t always know it right off. We may sit down to write out some idea that’s haunted our dreams and waking life for a long time, only to discover that the ideas don’t look or feel the same on paper as they did in our heads. We may also think that, because this happens, we are not writers.
This is not true.
We are writers. We’re born to combine words in such a way that, when read, a piece of our soul releases, transfers to the reader. We put our thoughts on paper to make them tangible, to make them real. Writers cannot renounce their writer spirits (and although a writer may choose not to practice this craft, he/she is still a writer).
So, regardless of what mask you wear today, regardless of the costume, beneath it all, you are a writer. You may try to hide it all you want, but that little spark of madness toward the written word will always be there. May as well strip off that mask and tend the fire.
(Image via Pinterest)