Writing Right Now

Some days it’s easy to believe that I am a writer. The words I write have meaning, conveyed in articulate, smart, witty ways that people might enjoy reading. The words I write have meaning that is important. The words I write mean something to someone, somewhere.
Over the past half a semester, I have been challenged as a writer to believe in the words I write and the meaning they carry. On the days that it’s quite hard to believe that I am a writer of value, of worth, of importance, I find what I compose to be jibberish. It’s hard to believe that you yourself are a writer if you don’t see the value in what you’re trying to say. It’s hard for me to believe that I am a writer because I don’t always believe that I’ve earned that title.
However, what I’ve been challenged to consider is that the title “writer” is not necessarily something to earn, but rather something that is a given part of you. I can be a writer even if my class journal entry isn’t intensely profound. I can be a writer even if the draft of my essay won’t win a Pulitzer. In fact, I am a writer because of those works; they inform how I write and compose and communicate now. Right now.

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