“I am a writer.”

I look at myself in the mirror and try saying it again.

“I am a writer.”

Why do the words taste so strange? So empty?

It feels like I’m taking credit away from the ‘real writers’. You know, the ones with published material, either self-published or from an actual publisher. Those are the writers. Those are the people who have gone through the hardships. They’ve pushed through rejection, fought over their content, edited for months and years, written so much that will never see the light of day, labored over queries and sent manuscripts and persevered through it all. Those are the real writers.

But I am a fraud.

I have three and a half manuscripts on my computer that are only ready for more edits. More edits and rewrites. I haven’t been doing this for years – they have. I didn’t have this ache in my soul to write when I was five – but they did. I didn’t write for a school newspaper or enter writing contests or submit pieces to magazines and websites growing up – but they did.

But I am a writer.

Just because I haven’t done those things doesn’t mean I’m not a real writer. Even if my content never made it beyond my desktop, I’d still be a writer. You know why?

Because I sat my ass in the chair (and more often, bed). I typed… and typed and typed. I wrote. I told a story and it exists somewhere outside of my head. Just because I recently found out about writing doesn’t mean I’m not a writer. Everyone may have more experience under their belts but that doesn’t mean I won’t get there one day. The only way I won’t is if I stop writing. Then, I would not be a writer.

“I am a writer.”

I stay with it. I continue to type. I find little snippets of time throughout my day to cultivate this passion. I get up early and work on what I can. I constantly find places where I can learn and hone my skills. I am a writer. I am a real writer.

So are you.

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