Real writers twinkle.

Wow. It has been a while since I have publicly written anything. That feels wrong, somehow.

I have never called myself a writer. I don’t really know why I’ve distanced myself from the label. Distanced would be putting it politely. I have denied and avoided any association with the word. Shrugged it off and announced that we would never comingle. All while secretly envying friends who are able to confidently announce that they are writers with that twinkle in their eyes.

I still keep this ridiculous notion that to call myself a writer must mean that I’ve written something Important. I must be worthy of the prestige. It needs to be earned. And I haven’t quite done so yet.

But, I do write. Mostly in secret. Nothing profound or groundbreaking. I write for me. Writing is as essential as oxygen. Part of me believes that that is enough. That the words do not have to be perfect; they just have to exist.

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