I, the Writer

When I was a child

I hated when adults asked,

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A princess, an astronaut, a lawyer, my mom

were all acceptable answers.

A writer was not.

There are many reasons, 

each as good as the last,

why I should give up my pursuit,

but not love—never love—

of fiction.  

It will take years of study, 

tears, hair-pulling, gut-wrenching 

years to become that which I already am.

I do write.  I am writing right now.

But I must have a degree—

multiple degrees—to be a 

Writer.  I must be able to list my

publications, journals whose editors

read my words and deemed them

Good.

I, the Writer,

must keep trying in the face of each rejection.

If I listen to those

who believe writing is a hobby,

not a profession,

then my soul would crack,

my heart would bleed itself dry and 

my mind would be empty of its words.

I, the poet, the writer, 

toil away in solitude, with nothing but

my books filled with the Words of

the Masters of the Art of Writing

and my own words, scribbled on napkins,

in notebooks, on my own skin,

to keep me company.

I, the Writer, must.  

I, the Poet, must.  

I, the Writer, will.