WHAT MAKES ME A WRITER?
I am a writer! I guess I have always been a writer, or at least that is the excuse for the boxes of leather bound, hard bound, and moleskin journals that I have collected. These journals are filled with words, and every once in a while I will flip through these journals and read. Some of the writing is quite good, some is quite bad. But whether good or bad, I find that sometimes I am in awe and say, “who the hell wrote this?” Sometimes I am impressed with the writing, and sometimes I am mortified, but all of the time I know that these writings are just going to be read by me. This is the reason I never truly feel like a writer.
My passion for writing has burned, like a steady flame for the majority of my life. But for the past few years, the passion and the dream have started to flicker, and a few times I felt that the flame was going out. I felt my dream was a fraud. What kind of writer only writes for themselves? But, I refused to let the flame go out. I enrolled in a University, to obtain my BA in English. The method to this madness? Maybe an education would give me the confidence to achieve my dream. So far, this education has helped to keep my confidence at a fairly steady level, and it has definitely helped keep the writing flame burning. I highly recommend education. But I still don’t feel like a writer, because I am not a writer, I am just a writing student, a very old writing student. I need to get my work out there for people to read, and then I will feel like a writer.
How does a writer get there work out there? Blogging is one way, and I am grateful for all the hits that I get, and for all of my followers. But I am not consistent about blogging which makes me a bad blogger, therefore a bad writer. I need more to push me. I need to be accountable to someone. So, I scan down the list of writing jobs on Craigslist, and feel like a failure, because everyone wants a writer with experience. I’ve been writing since the first grade, I am loaded with experience. <~~~~ Take it from me; this does not make a resume.
Then I came across an ad on Craigslist for the Boston Urban News. Journalism was not quite the route that I was taking, but something made me apply for the position. I opened my resume document, and deleted my first grade comment and added the only two accomplishments that I have, then I sent my pathetic little writing resume off to the company. Pretty much the only thing on my so-called-resume is my blog link, and my editorial board experience on the SNHU school journal. I never expected to hear back from them.
I did hear back from them, and they were setting up times for interviews. I put my name down for the interview, with my mouth agape the whole time. On the day of the interview I was so nervous that I felt like I was going to throw up. I was so nervous that I was contemplating not showing up for the interview, but like a trooper I went, because I am a writer.
I sat in the hall waiting to be seen. I was trying to calm my breathing and stomach. I took a deep breath in, “in with the good” I silently chanted. I blew it out,” out with the bad.” After a few repetitions I started feeling calmer, until the next interviewee came and sat next to me. He was so calm and chatty. He asked me question after question and told me all about himself. He was a nice enough guy, but did he not recognize that he was sitting next to a basket case, who was desperately trying to find her Zen place? The door opened, a young lady called my name and my brain turned to sludge.
I somehow boggled through the interview, and made myself appear somewhat normal. But I walked out feeling terrible. I knew that I would not get this job. But even though I knew there was no chance for me, I checked my email hourly, daily for 8-days. Until today when I woke up and with blurry eyes started opening my email. “We would love for you to join the Boston Urban News team as a writer!”, was the first line of the email. I took my glasses off, rubbed my eyes and put the glasses back on so that I could clearly read it. Yep, that’s what it says, I thought to myself. Then I wondered who the jokester was. I checked out the sender’s email address. It’s legit, my heart beat faster. I reread the email, and when I was 100% sure that I was not delusional, I ran downstairs, shrieked like a little girl and shared the news with my family. Then I went to Facebook, shrieked and shared the news with that family, and now I am shrieking while blogging my news.
My excitement and joy is to the point that I feel as if I am going to burst. This strong emotion is how I know that I am a writer.
Now, I have to get to work!