It’s funny. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life writing for my supper. Yet it’s only now that the world* knows I’ve penned a book that I suddenly feel as though I’m Writing.
Capital W writing.
Channeling Poe writing.
Brow-furrowing, teeth-gnashing, patched-elbow-blazer-wearing writing.
It’s as if all those words that came before didn’t count.
The truth is, all the words I have birthed, whether for emotional videos or for ads extolling the merits of advanced adhesives, were important. Not just because they helped me hone my craft, but because they voiced a part of who I am.
Sure, adhesives, athletic apparel and resorts are a smaller part of who I am, but still. A turn of a phrase. A verbal wink. They’re part of the nouns, verbs and, yes, dangling participles that make up my DNA.
I’ve always been inspired by those who paint the world with their words. The source of this inspiration is more than deftness of language, the way, as Chekov said, they showed the glint of light on glass. It’s their willingness to share themselves, their voice, with the world.
I’ve had friends approach me recently, telling me that they’re not “real” writers but wish that they were. And to this I say, pishaw. Published or unpublished, paid or unpaid, public or private, you are a writer. Everything you write matters because it’s your words, your voice, your experience. Don’t sell yourself short or let other people define who and what you are.
Go forth and write. I’ll be doing the same, whether for a novel or a radio ad. I just might wearing my patched-elbow blazer.
*And by “world” I mean 96 people on Facebook.