Start to Call Yourself a Writer
It begins with believing it
As long as I remember, I have always wanted to be a writer. I’ve had this overly sweet romantic feeling about it, coming from novels and film, picturing myself as a classy girl sitting at her desk, writing into her notebook, or typing endless pages for her huge pile of manuscript. Later on, growing up, the picture changed into sitting in cafés and typing words on a laptop — the world moving in slow motion with only my fingers moving at normal speed over the keyboard.
I used to write a lot and when I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about writing. And I was dreaming about it.
Then I grew up. Life happened.
I went to university, I started to work, I started a family, and all these beautiful images of me being a writer faded into oblivion. It was just never compatible enough with all the busyness of life. After all, I had money to make, kids to raise, dishes to do. Whenever my inner writer tried to emerge from the darkness where I buried her, I shut her up, saying it’s not going to happen. You can’t write — now go back to your presentations and impress someone with what you know. So I did. And I did pretty well for myself.
It was reasonable. I was good at my job, I was making good money, I even liked doing it.
