I don’t remember when it happened.
But at some point over the last year or two, I became a writer.
I had always dreamed of writing, thought of it as a part of my identity. But it felt too far away, too out of reach for me to claim as my own.
Until that changed – so slowly I failed to notice.
I grew into my identity as a writer. It became real. I didn’t question it any more, or feel like I needed to fulfil certain criteria to claim that title.
As a writer, I’m constantly growing and developing my skills and interests. My life won’t always look the same as it does now, and neither will my work. But that’s how it should be. We all need to change and adapt and try new things.
There will be times when I won’t write as often and that part of my being will recede. Perhaps my focus will be on work, or family or travelling. Maybe day to day life will get in the way.
But writing will always be a part of me. On some level, I’ll always be able to call myself a writer, whether or not I publish a book.
Some people will accept that and others won’t. But I’ll always know that writing is in my blood.