A Writer

I’ve been blogging for all of about a week now, so obviously I’m a total expert.

What I have learned in all of these seven days is that blogging is fun.  I know that no one is reading it at this point, but it is so nice to have a place to share those ideas that are just bursting forth ready to be heard.  But most of all, it’s fun to be a writer.

For my whole life, I have always wanted that title… writer.  To me, it was the epitome of success.  Only the few, the proud, the chosen got to actually be writers.  And having a blog isn’t exactly making the New York Times best seller list, but I still like to think that I’m making my way into this crazy world.

As usual, I doubt everything.  Can I actually consider myself a writer?  After all, don’t you have to make money at it to be a writer?  Don’t you have to at least have one single person read what you write?

But my answer, at least for now, is no.  A writer is merely someone who writes, even if just for him or herself.  Being a writer isn’t about audience, rather it’s an approach to life.  It’s a way of being where you try to put what you feel is universal in your particular life into words so others can relate.  It’s an openness to experience and a willingness and desire to share that experience.

I like to think of writing as art and writers as artists.  We take that which is mundane and try to show its beauty by showing its truth and honesty.  It’s a challenge, and it’s one that I am excitedly and willingly undertaking.

I could look at this as just my little blog, my stake in cyberspace, but what’s the fun in that?  I like finding the glory in things, and the glory in this silly little blog is that it means I’m a writer.  And I’ll take that title however I can get it.