Why I Call Myself A Writer
by Melinda Palacio -- June 12, 2005
Most days I take on a mundane identity: graduate student, tech support, librarian, actress, reporter. If I were a better liar, I might hide behind another name.
It's embarrassing to tell people about my passion for writing. When some readers ask: "Have I read your book" or "Where can I read your work," I wonder if it's worth cataloging the few scattered and obscure publications that validate my non-profitable career as a self-employed writer? I'm thankful I've figured out something important--I need to remember the good days. On days like today it feels as though magical carrots have fallen from heaven, leading onward and forward. The muse empowers me and I proudly call myself a writer.
Like any other art form, part of the magic is believing in
yourself. However, I've had days when I back myself into a helpless
corner where I forget about all of my accomplishments. On those days, a
faint, but shrill voice screams and begs for a
reality check. I hear myself reading out loud with great
enthusiasm, but suspect I'm the only person who's remotely amused.
It happens at writer's conferences and workshops.
At what point is believing in yourself useless? At what point do you resign yourself to never leaving your day job because you've convinced yourself that you are proud of the small, but important ways you are indispensable to your workplace? My less enlightened, more cynical self would say finding a means of feeding and clothing myself is "giving up." And fortunately, I know better. I know there's only one way to give up as a writer. And that's when I ignore the voices, the stories and original thoughts locked in that secret part of me that even I am not always aware of.
A writer is as simple and complex as her definition. I stop existing as a writer when I put my pen down or relegate my scribblings to a junk drawer, a paper shredder, or the silent trash can on my laptop.
But today was a glorious day. The sun was shining, my picture was in
the local paper and I had my very
first public reading. I heard applause from the
small gathering. One man asked me where he
could buy my book. Another audience member told me my writing was
inspirational. I gave her my card--the ones I paid for out of my own
pocket that say writer.