I have always considered myself a writer, even when it was no longer my job. Even when I wasn’t sure if I could write. Even when I realised that I had stopped reading.

“If you aren’t sure whether or not you’re a writer – you’re not. If you can stop writing, then you probably aren’t supposed to start.” That’s a slightly harsh version of a commonly expressed adage – you’ve probably seen one version or another.

I’ve never agreed with that. I’m totally a writer, and I don’t write every day. I barely write at all, ever. I sometimes mess around with ideas, but they never reach my fingers, my fingers never reach for a keyboard.

I tell myself that of *course* you can be a writer without scribbling into the early hours, every night, covering yawns with inkstained fingers. I tell myself that because I want to eat my cake and still have it. I don’t want to admit that I’m not really suited for that world.

It’s a part of the identity I have conjured for myself. It’s in my internal dictionary, under “Me”. I’m a writer. Says right there, inside my head, in black and white.

But… I don’t really know if I used ‘adage’ in the correct way in that second line. I think I should probably have used better phrasing, rather than relying on asterisks before and after a word for emphasis.

Did I need that internal dictionary bit at all, or was it covered with the previous sentence?

I started this blog tonight to prove I’m a writer. That I’m good at it, and can communicate ideas in a clear, interesting and compelling manner.

If I turns out that I can’t actually do that after all, that’s probably a worthwhile fact to establish too.

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