My daughter was drawing--as she ALWAYS is, whenever I'm not on her case to do her homework, clean her room, or practice her flute--and my son wandered over to share her art supplies and do a bit of his own.
"I love to draw," she said. Then, eager to one-up my son, she said, "You don't love to draw, though. You're not an artist like me."
My son didn't correct her. He said, casually, "No, that's because I'm a writer."
I was stunned. Here he was, seven year of age, and he already felt he could call himself a writer.
I'm 41, yet even though I've published a doctorate and a book of ghost stories, have had a handful of my own plays performed, and have worked on writing nearly my entire life, I still have great difficulty calling myself a writer.
But this is the end of it. No more. My mantra is final: I am a writer.
I'm a writer. I write. I go a bit nutty when I don't write. I LOVE writing.
I've been working hard on writing lately, too. I completed my list of agents for The Ghost Portal, and I'm days away from beginning my revision of my third novel. I've read through two fellow writers' novels over that last week, I've planned out a children's book, and I'm waffling between participating in NaNoWriMo or PiBoIdMo--though I'm leaning towards doing BOTH.
Why? Because I'm a writer. I'm a writer, I'm a writer, I'm a writer.
I'm a writer. A real, bona fide writer. How about you?