I have spent much of the last week reclining either on the couch or in bed. For two days, I was unable to do anything – including read – because of the overwhelming vertigo and nausea that overtook me when I so much as lifted my head. So I slept…and slept….and slept. I have slept more in the past seven days than in the preceding month combined. Today was my first day with The Boy back at school, and as I’m still excessively coughing every time I move, speak or pretty much do anything, I just hung around reading. Without the nausea. Yay!
I spent the day reorganizing my calendar to squeeze into the next few days everything that I missed doing last week, and also catching up with some of my favorite blogs. There are so many amazing bloggers out there, not a few of whom I’ve stumbled across courtesy of Bloggy Moms and The SITS Girls, and I love reading their new posts. At each turn, I find something to inspire me, make me smile, make me cry, amaze me, give me a lift just when I might need it, provide wisdom. I am humbled that I am fortunate enough to share the profession of writer with these amazing women, and I bow down to their grace in creating such wonderful networks where women writers can converge and support one another.
Today, however, during my trip down the internet rabbit hole, I read a blog that made me cringe. Not because the writing was bad or the subject matter was distasteful to me; quite the contrary. What made me cringe was the writer’s voice, how timid and fearful she seemed even to call herself a writer. Looking deeper, I discovered that she’s been blogging for a number of years and has published a whole host of things. I was saddened that somewhere along her writing path, someone gave her the idea that what she was doing didn’t make her a “real” writer.
I published my first piece of writing in high school. I’ve never made my living as a writer (unless you count writing legal memos, motions and briefs), but I am a writer. Someday I will make my living writing what I love, but until then, nobody has the right to tell me I’m not a writer. I don’t need anyone’s permission to call myself a writer or pursue my dream.
I am a writer because I write; because I breathe words; because I bleed words. And that’s it.