Write. Er…
As if I don’t have enough to do, I’ve gone and signed up for National Novel Writing Month,
a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.
I’ve always considered myself a writer, first and foremost. It’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was about five. I was going to grow up to be a bestselling author, a famous recluse perhaps, churning out important works of fiction from within my sprawling mansion somewhere in the English countryside.
So what happened? I haven’t figured that out completely, but it has something to do with discovering that I was great at other things besides writing, and- yes, with having to earn a living.
But I’ve never stopped writing. And if what defines a writer is simply that she writes… then: I’m a writer. However unpolished. However unpublished.
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