A REAL Writer.

I do so love to define things. Placing my thoughts in nifty, convenient packages makes me feel like I am in control and therefore...in control.

So, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a writer, and once I’ve established a tidy definition, could I place myself in that category? For surely, it will be the uber-club of the elite, placement in which can only be attained through Outrageous Dues and Rites of Passage.

I’ve been considering myself a “wannabe writer.” On a business trip, for example, when a fellow traveler asks “What do you do?” (Which, deep down we all know is a euphemism for “WHO are you??”) I always respond with my most recent job title. It has never occurred to me, ever, to say I am a writer. Why not? I spend nearly all my waking hours writing, thinking about writing, reviewing others’ writings, writing about writing, wishing I were writing instead of working… But the answer that pops out is “Admissions Advisor for a junior college.” In my heart, I don’t really consider myself a writer.

I think the answer to this profound identity crisis is two-fold.

1. I’m not published. I’ve been trying to get published for less than a year. I’m so far away from SFWA’s three-professional-sales qualifying mark that...well, I just don’t go there. So, how can I consider myself a writer if I’m not published?

2. I don’t finish things. I talk and plan and dream, but I don’t DO. Or at least, that’s the old Rae, the Rae that friends/family expect to see. I’m terrified of living down to my notorious past. So, how can I consider myself a writer when I’m likely to throw in the towel at any moment?

*sigh*

So, no possibility of uber-club status for me. Well, except for this:

I write.

I write better every month than I did the last.

I write more every month than I did the last.

I submit more items for publication every month than I did the last.

Dude(s). I just might be a writer.

Writer. Me.

*practices saying it*

I’m a writer.

Writerly Stuff for 6/1/05

Progress: 500 words on Elisa's Belly

Words so far: 11,149

Made-up words: n/a

Barely avoided clichés: Sweat breaks out...

The words I'll hate most to cut: I've felt her rough fingers against my back my whole life, watched how dextrous and capable they are. Capable of killing with a hairpin.

Thank God an editor didn't see this: As a little girl, she served priests in the refractory.

General thoughts: Gah, this was a tough scene. A little dialog, a little laundry... but it was a KEY scene. A turning point.

Now, someone must die.