I was up very early this morning and the first thing I did was turn on the computer. Usually I go right online, but I spent some time this morning re-reading and editing a story I had written.
As long as I can remember, I've had the secret thought that there were stories percolating in my imagination but I always dismissed the notion of actually attempting to get the words down on paper. As a teenager I would write notebooks full of gooey romantic poetry and dialogue and snippets of scenes, casting myself and my own true love of the moment as the characters. This carried over into my adulthood, when I discovered the miracle of the computer. I again wrote pages and pages of dialogue between characters I created, a charming, loving fantasy husband and his beautiful, talented loving wife (me, of course). But I still insisted I wasn't a writer.
A few years ago I discovered Literotica, website with a huge library of erotic fiction written by people just like me: amateurs who wrote because it made them happy. I wrote my first story and submitted it. Lo and behold, people liked it! What a rush!
So I kept reading, and I kept writing. To be sure, a lot of it was embarrassingly bad. It even made me cringe. But it made me happy to arrange words into a story. It pleases me that people seem to enjoy what I write, but it's the writing I love. I'd do it even if another soul ever laid eyes on it.
Yet I still am uncomfortable calling myself a writer. I write, but I'm not a writer, if that makes any sense. Does one earn the honor of calling herself a writer only when she gets paid for it? I don't know. I'm still a little intimidated to offer what I write for sale.
I'm going to try to get used to it though, because I have a file of stories that tell me... I am a writer.