Member-only story
For the longest time I couldn’t refer to myself as a writer. I wrote manuscripts that will probably never see the light of day, articles worth just enough to buy snacks from a vending machine and award winning essays in the eyes of my professors yet I still could not call myself a writer.
In my mind, a writer is a well-known published author. Someone who had finally made it onto the New York Times Bestsellers list. A writer is somebody who has books upon books lined up on the Barnes and Noble shelves. A writer is somebody who is backed up by famous agents or publishing houses.
I am not a writer. I am someone who just writes.
I never considered myself to be a writer because I couldn’t wrap my mind around a writer being someone who shares their gift with the outside world from the comfort of their bedroom with nothing to their name but a few essays, articles and unborn manuscripts that only a few have read.
I was a small fish in a big pond. I wasn’t a J.K. or a King. I was just another invisible face in the eyes of the world.
It wasn’t until I stopped caring about the perceived glorified life of a writer. I no longer cared if one person or hundreds of people read my work. I didn’t care if I made nothing off of my craft because I…
