I was young and stupid, and thought I wanted to be a writer. At least that’s what I thought when I was clanking away at the sleek, trimmed typewriter in my mom’s home office. I still remember those days, the fond memories of youthful exuberance, sitting behind an oak desk, excited to find a calling that was my own.
Now, I’m not sure what being a writer is.
Like all writers, I struggle with the constant battle of feeling the need to create. To create prose or characters or poetry that moves the spirit. To create writing so powerful it evokes and enlivens the emotions of a reader.
If you’re not creating something new with your writings, then are you even a writer?
If you don’t write every day, then can you rightfully call yourself a writer?
If you struggle to make money from your writings, then do others consider you a writer?
These are some of the questions I struggle to answer, to find meaning that will guide me forward in this vocation.
I’m not a professional by any standards. My boyhood dream came true when I published four books in 2017. But I have yet to make a healthy living from my published works.
I guess this is a struggle that all aspiring writers face, regardless if they become well-known or not. We all start somewhere, with a blank page in front of us. Ideas floating around in the hyperspace of our minds. Needing to communicate with the world at large, to put these ideas into flowing text that connects with a readership that admires what we’ve written.