Only a handful of people know that I’m a writer. But then again, only a handful of people will claim such a bold title. A lot of people will be modest enough to say: “Yeah, I write a few stories/poetry/or whatever else here and there,” instead of saying: “Yeah, I’m a writer,” or even if people say this, they’ll most likely add “sort of.”
I absolutely have no idea. I guess writers are generally shy people? (Haha that makes me laugh.) I suppose to an extent, that’s true. I feel like writers are shy/anti-social. They have these thoughts locked up inside their heads, running around like children making a lot of noises and so they absolutely have to look for a way to quiet them (else they’ll go insane) –which they find in writing.For others it could be watching a mindless tv show, or reading a book, or maybe even a glass of wine. But for writers, they find peace in Words. And with this said, I guess we all really do look for solace or even just a little distraction.
Or perhaps it’s just too presumptuous to call yourself a writer? Either way, what does it even mean to be a writer? When can someone call themselves a writer and get away with it?When they’ve managed to publish a book and have it sell a million copies? When they’re being PAID to write? I feel like these are all such typical and very boring answers. If this is what you think is the definition of being a writer, well then I guess it makes sense that very few people claim the title of being a writer.
But if you ask me, an 18 year old girl who’s only been properly writing since two years ago, when yes, I also had noisy little brats running around my head and i was very close to insanity, being a writer means exactly that –writing. Once someone has discovered how to turn words into something even more than just words, and have become addicted to the high of being able to EXPRESS themselves, well then congratulations you’re a writer, (in my eyes, that is).
Two years ago, I was an ordinary girl who read a lot. A LOT. Which means, that yes, I wear thick glasses, make sarcastic comments every now and then that very few people find humor in and actually LOL with me, and to sum it all up, I’m pretty much what other people my age would call a nerd/dork. I was basically spending a lot of time alone with books. I wasn’t exactly lonely, but after a book ends, that little time period where I’m trying to decide what amazing book to read next, I look around me and wish that I had someone to talk to, to share passages and quotes I loved, just someone to discuss with, you know? I longed for that. Truly.
And of course I never found it. I mean okay, I have friends and a few people I could talk to about the book I just read but somehow it’s not enough. Something else calls to me, something else appeals to me –greater than just tapping someone’s shoulder and saying, “hey, I just read an amazing book.” I feel like doing this, even if I added a gazillion !!!! it would still not convey exactly how I felt, and that’s weird because apparently talking to someone equals to expressing yourself.
It was all simply NOT. ENOUGH.
But then I started writing. At first it was just random thoughts I wanted to get out of my head, but then a friend of mine, whom I truly love, (you know who you are!) read it and suggested I start a blog, and the rest is history.
I can clearly say that I’ve improved a lot. Even without proper training/education on writing. I feel like writing is a passion. Something to love. And I guess we also look for that something to love, and then we pursue it and we never let it go. Why? Because we love it. I love writing. I love words. I love being able to be free. Free to write whatever I want, no rules, no restrictions. Just me and words. (And those of you who are reading this of course).
Writing has saved me a million times, maybe even more. I will tell you that I am serious when I say I could never have had survived life and continue to survive life, without writing. I love it that much. I need it that much. More than anything, or anyone. And normally, I’d be very afraid right about now. Wanting and loving something so much would mean a big heartbreak and tears and nights spent wallowing in self-pity and tubs and tubs of ice cream (which really isn’t so bad but well you know, except for the calories!). But the beauty of it, Writing will never leave me. It will always be a part of me. A part of me that is mine alone, a part of me I sincerely love, and a part of me I will never ever lose.
Call me shameless, call me arrogant, but I’m a writer. No, you won’t find my name printed on the spines of books shelved in bookstores or libraries, but I’m getting there. If not, then I’ll keep writing. Even when no one will take the time of day to read what I write, I won’t care. I’ll write. I’ll do what I want. And no one, absolutely no one, can stop me.