Today I contemplate the nature of the word “writer”. For most of my life, I have written things, many things, but found myself somehow too scared to label myself as a writer. It felt large and consuming, the kind of title you give to a piece that you’ve been working on for a long time or something you’ve been dreaming of since you were a child.
So, yes, I am a writer. I am a writer simply because I write. I pick up my pen and jot notes on paper pads and I work my fingers over keys on my laptop to interpret life around me.
To write is to move; move through time and space in a way that calls to you and your wildest, most extravagant yet earthly, beautiful thoughts. For me and probably most writers, writing is the act of expression that allows for margins and errors and still gets to basis of something critical.
Though, this wouldn’t be a true writerly post without the mention of edits and peer-review. This is perhaps the real reason why I sat down today to draft this post. I have just received edits and comments and feedback on an essay that I thought was genius in some spots and immensely personal overall. Some people simply didn’t understand it, they wished for more explicit thought that led their own to conclusions. Some people enjoyed it and gave few comments that made it hard to decipher which response was true; the good or the bad. I believe that is the point, there isn’t a good or bad response. The writing itself is the truth. Those who make comments are just trying to rearrange those truths to flow better.
Writing is like this buttercup. Bright, potent, pigmented and small. A part of a larger whole, a larger field of buttercups that create a sea of yellow. Writing is the act of stringing together words and buttercups to make phrases and reality.