I've started calling myself a writer and it's quite nervewracking.
It's like a half truth, or sometimes a lie because how can I be something... if I'm not actually being it.
Sometimes I get lucky and words swirl around my head and gradually or occasionally quickfire into sentences that make a story, an expression, a capture of some part of me that then comes out, through my fingers, into the page. It's glorious. Like finishing a sudoku in one sitting.
Lately, it's been quiet. Plenty of words, sentences, meandering thoughts wondering through my brain but nothing wills it's way out of me. I am almost afraid to sit in front of the keyboard. I wait and hope for something. Some poignant truth with a touch of wit, something raw and funny and sad. Something to remember me by.
Something to remind me of a truth.
I am a writer.