My husband and I went away for a few days to relax, celebrate our anniversary (a little late), and to take some time to recharge and prioritize our hopes and dreams for the future. Both together and individually. I’ve spent some time pondering the questions “Do I really want to be a writer? And if so, why?”.
I’ve read that “real” writers write because they must, whether anyone reads their work or not. I don’t think that’s me. I don’t have a story burning inside that needs to get out. I started writing with an op-ed piece that was published in the newspaper about going to see a stage production of The Wizard of Oz with my daughter’s kindergarten class. I wrote a few pieces like that from time to time, jumped on the blogging bandwagon that was all the rage at the time, and then became part of a writer’s critique group for a few years when a good friend asked me to participate.
I enjoy my job and hope to keep it for several more years. I am not looking to become a “making money, retire to the beach and write” writer. I’m not a deep or brilliant thinker whose thoughts will change the world or impact a generation. And yet, here I am with a website and an opportunity to share my voice.
Am I a writer? I’m not sure. It depends on your definition of a writer. What I do know is that I’m going to share from my heart, soul, and mind. What will I say? I don’t know, but I know it will be eclectic just like me. Sometimes silly, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes confused – but always me.