Like a lot of people who enjoy writing, I experience a certain amount of angst about whether or not I’ve earned the right to go around telling people, “I’m a writer.” I try to write daily. I’ve had pieces I wrote posted in online journals. I finished a damn novella the other day, but is any of that enough?
I cleared another hurdle this morning: a story I wrote was accepted by Time Alone Press for their upcoming horror anthology, Let Us In. My story, titled “The Home,” will be in Volume Three, due out in April 2017. I’ve been smiling all day. I mean, this is the kind of thing that for-real writers do.
On the other hand, I’m aware that this issue doesn’t really matter. Becoming A Writer is the least important reason I write. I write because I enjoy it, and because it just comes naturally to me. Still, a core part of my personality is that I can’t just enjoy anything without doing some 0ver-analyzing, feeling some paralyzing doubt.
Ah, well. Back to writing.
One thought on “A Writer (For Real)”
I can SO relate to that feeling. At what point do I stop wanting to be a writer and actually become a writer? That’s so cool that your story made it into an anthology. Congratulations 🙂
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