Note: A few years ago I wrote a series of pieces on “What’s Important.” They got a decent amount of traffic on my old blog, so I’ve decided to re-run them on my new site.
It’s 9:03 on a Tuesday night and I’m sitting in front of my computer, much like I do most of the nights of the week. My wife is in the living room watching television and it was all I could do to force myself away from her and into my office. My desk is covered with papers, vaguely organized by story. There are pens of every color all over the place.
<img src="https://kylegarret.files.wordpress.com/2019/10/1b694-img.jpg has to tell me about writers:
I’m wrong about that. I will admit that right now. It was pretentious and more than a little bit cruel of me to believe such a thing. I don’t think I even realized I believed that until I really thought about it. Perhaps that’s the price I pay for going to grad school.
Anyone who writes gets something from the writing that they need, and who am I to say that what they get and what they need are any less than what I get and what I need?
If I can get past my arrogance on what a writer is on that level, then why can’t I consider myself a writer?
There’s something holding me back. There’s something that won’t let me call myself a writer even though I know that’s what I am, even though it’s something that has defined me for as long as I can remember.
It is, as always, a matter of self-confidence…
This entry, and it’s sequel (coming next Monday), are a part of a series of blog posts that just seem to keep going and going. You can find them here: