I have to adhere to a lot of rituals when I sit down to write. I have to have every element just right, everything in it’s proper place, to induce my mind into a state of fabulous. I like to picture myself writing years from now, working diligently to finish my thought before the baby wakes from her nap or our oldest comes home from preschool. I don’t have a baby, or an oldest, and I’m not 100% certain who will share the “our” with me in that scenario, but the central idea is the same:
I want to write.
It’s hard to say that. I feel sometimes like the beginning songwriter who swaggers about town referring to himself as a musician. I’ve been published, yes. I keep a blog that’s read by more than just my family and close friends. I write weekly, if not always daily. I have passion for my craft. But, am I a writer?
I don’t know how to answer that question other than to publish something incredible to validate and solidify myself as a writer, but I can’t write anything worth publishing if I don’t have the confidence to write. And what about people who never get published, or who have no desire to? Are they not writers?
It’s an age old question: what makes an artist? I think, more often than not, I’m of the opinion that we all have the capacity to create; the artist is the person who actually takes time to do it. If I bear that in mind, I really don’t need any other sort of validation.
But, you know, it never hurts to hear that other people believe in you.