“AM I A WRITER?”

That was the question I fought within my head.

When do you call yourself a writer? What do writers do?
They write, right? Or they write right.

But do I write? Do I write right?

I may write for two hours a week compared to the countless hours I sit down to write.

Can I call myself a writer because I write, it isn’t much, but I write.
A writer writes, right?
Right, and I did, and I still do, so am I a writer?

The only real thing that changed since I officially started writing five years ago is that I write more. I’m still afraid to publish some of my writing out of angst, but I write. I try to portray my fantasy more, and I’ve gained control over the highway of thoughts in my brain.
It was chaotic at first because I didn’t want to lose any of the ideas I had.
I would write every single story idea instead of working on one story. That, jumping from one story to the other, was not satisfying at all, because I would spend countless moments behind documents whereas I would only write a fragment of what I could’ve written if I’d solely focused on one story at a time.

After two years of writing, I thought that I finished my first book until the misses said that it was weak. Not with those words, but she made her point. Thanks for the honesty, by the way.
Was I ready to call myself a writer? Heck no, I was broken by her honest feedback, devastated even.
Didn’t she know I poured two years of my life into that book?
Yes, she knew that it was my pride and joy, but someone had to tell me that it bad.
After weeks of soaking in self-pity, I didn’t want to write anymore, and I was miserable.

At least, I thought I was miserable because I couldn’t write. But it turned out I was unhappy because I didn’t write anymore.
So in writing again, I found writing to be the cure for my misery.
Is my writing perfect now? No, but better.
I finished a first draft script for an animated series.
I finished the revised version of the revised version of my altered book, only to start on my next revision of the same book.

If anyone asked me now if I’m a writer, I would say, Yes, I am a writer.
But not because I’ve finished some writing that no one besides the misses read.
Or because my cat and the protagonist are my only companions when writing in the middle of the night.
No, I’m a writer because I finally believe that I am a writer.

I’m an evolving writer, that strives for greatness with every syllable and sentence, with every revision and constructive feedback.
Therefore, “I am a writer.”