Something I wrote on my journaling blog. It deals with trying to find my identify as a writer.
There are certain things people say that get to me. Maybe I’m being over-sensitive, but the words bother me just the same.
“She wants to be a writer.” a certain family member chatting with a fellow stranger while I’m standing there.
What? I don’t want to be….I am a writer.
“It’s just a poem, or a short story.”
It’s not just…the poem happens to be my heart and soul as the characters that live within the story.
While I was working, my husband would try to discourage me from spending too much time writing when things needed to be done around the house. I’d tell him that I needed to write. He would come back with a question: “Are you making money with your writing?” My answer, unfortunately, would always be- “No.”
Now, I’m home, no longer in the work force because of my progressive disability, and…
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