Sounds weird to say, right? That even still, after being four books in, sometimes I have to “feel” like a writer. If you’ve written, then it’s natural to automatically add that to your repertoire. Sometimes though, I don’t feel like a writer. I feel everything except that feeling of actually being a writer. I’ve got so many other responsibilities that I put first; I’m a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I’m so many things that sometimes being a writer is forgotten, or lost underneath all the responsible adult things I have to do.
Today, I did what I say is the corniest of goals for me. I sat in my neighborhood Starbucks, with my breakfast sandwich, coffee, laptop and notebook. Both books, Playing with Fire and How it Really Went Down at my side for reference; and I was a writer. I wrote for two hours; which to some should be normal. For me though, I have yearned to be able to sit uninterrupted for two hours and write my life away. It felt amazing.
So today, I was who I’ve always dreamed to be everyday and all day; a writer, and it felt damn good.