It has taken a long time for me to own up to being a writer.  The foremost reason is because of the question that inevitably follows: “Oh, what have you written?”  I can never get away from this, and I don’t blame anyone for asking it, because it is the question that makes sense.  Recently, I attended my local writer’s guild meeting (its another way I am trying to practice the life of being a writer, and maybe convince myself  that I am one). A gentleman welcomed me and asked me a similar question-writers understand that we are all in different stages of the writing process-“What do you write?”. I told him and we talked for a bit. Later in conversation he told me, “This is the biggest liar’s club in town.”  Considering the headquarters for one of the largest outdoor retail shops is located here, I laughed.  Surely, fisherman have us beat.  I understood the gist.  And perhaps we lie to ourselves daily.  I know that I have dreamed up characters and settings, dialogue and plots that may never see the desk of an editor or agent.  Or the opposite end of the spectrum is they become well-traveled, visiting many different editors, stamped like passports-“Rejected”.

Now that I call myself a writer, I try to prepare myself for this question, yet still, my face reddens and I stammer to get out a sentence, because I have no publishing credits.  I have submitted at least one finished short story to a magazine from which I received a kind decline.  Do I tell people about that?  Because I’m sure that list is only going to get longer.  Sure, there was that poem I had published in the elementary newsletter.  And another poem I had published in my high school literary magazine.  I placed in poetry and prose in a high school writing contest, and I even received an honorable mention for a poem in our local writing guild once.  (Seems like I wrote a lot of poetry when I was younger, now that I look back on it.) I don’t offer up these achievements when asked the question, because it was decades ago and hardly seems to matter, and I’m pretty sure that isn’t what the inquiring person was meaning in the question.  I blog.  Does that count?  Probably still not the answer most are looking for.  After a reasonable time of searching for a suitable reply I think I have finally come up with an acceptable answer. I am a writer, not an Author.  Author is the distinguishing title.  And the hard truth is, I may always be a writer, but never an Author.  Writing will always be a tool I employ, whether it be an occasional blog post on the inter-webs, or unpolished drafts filed in cabinets. It doesn’t cause me anguish, some disappointment at times, but I know it is God’s gift (if gift is how you would term it) and it His to use as He sees fit.  I don’t mind the question itself, I just am prepared for the interesting reactions I get when I explain I have no credits to my name yet.

Other people are not the only ones I feel compelled to convince.  On a fairly regular basis, I work hard to convince myself.  I weigh often what justifies the title Writer in my own mind.  I negotiate with myself frequently about it.  For a time, I was convinced I could only be a writer if I worked at it like a day job.  When I exited teaching, upon the birth of my first-born, it was how I expected things to go.  I was almost finished with my writing correspondence course, and I would have an abundance of time. I’m sure people gently warned me about newborns.  As the kids came, and the realization that the day job wasn’t feasible, I reasoned that a writer submits to publications.  Only I wasn’t submitting.  As my devotional life improved, it occurred to me that perhaps a blog about things God was teaching me might be interesting.  I started one, and I even had readers, maybe only nine, but readers. A true writer, has readers, doesn’t she?  A daily blog takes up an incredible amount of time, and a devotional blog in particular, because it meant hours of study.  None of that was a bad thing, but I didn’t have hours to devote to it every day.

Year after year, I claim the writer title with some trepidation, though I am working more consistently on projects than I have ever done in my life.   The resistance to embracing it probably stems from the rooted fear of never being able to upgrade that title to author.  I shouldn’t say fear.  I think it more the worry of seeming foolish.  The concern that maybe I am the President of the Liar’s Club. I am unsure how God sees me in this endeavor also.  I know that there are topics and stories I long to write and novels yearning to be written that I believe to be at His urging. I want to write for His glory, and His alone.  I ask Him to guide what I write.  But I also know, that may not be His Will for me.

Is it deceitful then to call myself a writer simply because I write?  How much writing does it take to be a writer?  A status post on Facebook?  A book review on Amazon?  A “Dear Editor” letter to the local newspaper?  Those are all published, in a sense. I imagine that many of the people that do these things have no desire or intention of being a writer.  So is intent enough?  If I intend to become an author, is that a convincing enough argument, even if I never achieve it? Am I a writer because I write things intended for publication?  It is my intent that someone, someday, somewhere, will read what I’ve written.  My mind swirls to balance the variety of ways I might be considered a writer, with the equally discouraging reasons as to how am I not.  Do I borrow from philosopher Descartes in a far less existential mode-“I think {I am a writer}; therefore I am {a writer}”?  I guess the questions will always remain, until I see Author following my name.  Won’t that be grand?  Until the next dreaded question comes up,  “What are you working on now?”