I write. I am a writer.
This is a fairly new identity for me. One I have been trying to avoid for some time. The fact of the matter is I have been writing my whole life. I have the pages to show for it too.
But words can get so messy and definitions sometimes seem so final, like you could get pinned to the wall with them. I need them to be transformative, not jailers. I need them to set me free.
So words are these beings that I wrestle with. When I find I am in the magic of them, I am not writing at all. Rather they are writing me. Therefore I am a channeler of words. I open my mouth, pick up my pen, sit at my keyboard and out they come in their own dance, sometimes all out of order. Sometimes I can just think out loud and they join in on the conversation and if I am lucky, I will get that down.
But with stories, they are completely in charge of the show. I just take dictation.
In recent years I have found myself writing all over the place, poems, journals, short stories, long stories, novels, plays, scripts, nonfiction, even comedy, along with an occasional song or lyric.
It is completely out of control! There are pages spilling out everywhere I look.
I give in. OK, I am a writer.