Since I last posted here, one of my confidants told someone else, a professional, that I am a writer. I was uncomfortable with that. The professional immediately asked if I had made any money from it, if I had published anything. My confidant correctly answered “No” to both questions.

Because those answers are no, I would not have told someone I am a writer. The fact the listener is a respected, hard-working, hired professional in their choice of career made me feel like squirming, as if I laid claim to something untrue, something childishly grandiose without having earned it. I cannot quite explain it. Yet, upon trying to express this to my confidant, (while in the presence of a second,) I received an impassioned dressing down from both and informed that I am a writer. Their defense included the time I spend writing and the quality I strive for in it, among other things. The point that rammed it home for me was the fact that, if I were subpoenaed and required to submit all evidence I have that I am a writer to a court, I would have extensive paper and digital files to present.

At first I took their commentary about my dedication with a grain of salt. We are close and they are biased in my favor. However, that tangible proof is not someone’s impression; it is objective. The fact that I own so many words, have generated so many ideas and recorded progressions through various plots; it combined with their determination that I see their point, and got through to me. It kind of shocked me into thinking a different way. I am a writer. It may not yet be my profession, but it is more than a hobby. A calling, perhaps

A calling I do not answer in a useful way! An old story came to mind recently, one I have not thought of for years. I mean that literally – the files on it I have were all last modified between seven and twelve years ago. It was so clear and so intriguing that I worked on that for a bit, while completely ignoring my current rewrite. You know, the rewrite which I intended to finish four months ago. I find myself embarrassed to be so behind where I told you I planned to be.

Yet, the longer I am stuck in this section, the more it gets filled out. In my ignorance and eagerness, I left far more still to do than I realized. I knew a few points that happened, yet never wondered how to connect them. Looking back, these past weeks spent making dishearteningly little progress in the word count have left me with a logical, continuous, and far smoother progression from here to there. (From here to there happens to be from capture to escape, actually; are you interested?)

Already there are over 10,000 words more in the rewrite than in the draft to this point. Even as I move through this improved version of my story, I am not satisfied with it. I already want to do another round of editing. Ugh, that would delay giving it to a reader even more! One person, who often acts as my sounding board, is always so interested by my babbling that I have the urge to suggest my incomplete second draft – or even a messy first one! – whenever they comment they finished a book and need to find something to read. I am so excited to finish something, and the closer it gets, the further it seems.

I am a writer. When I finish something, I will feel more comfortable calling myself one.