You have to write to be a writer. Not a novel concept but one that can be extremely hard to grasp at times. But how, why, what do I write?
I write at work in between phone calls when I should be replying to emails. I scribble on scrap paper and tiny overpriced notebooks. I type on my laptop on my couch, in the library, at the coffee shop sipping dollar beers.
I write to express. I write to free myself of the thoughts, emotions, confusing torrents of words that flood my being on a daily basis.
I write crap. Pages of crap. Years of crap, with the hope that I will find a gem. A thought or idea so worth sharing that I will be able to send it out into the world and it will be embraced by others who have been sitting, waiting to feel that click. You know that click, that audible click. It’s the moment when you know not only that you are not alone but someone has been able to express exactly what you have been feeling in a way that makes you feel both validated and poetic.
And one day someone will say, “She’s a writer.”