I went to a Writer’s Conference in New York this past weekend. It was great. It felt refreshing to be in a room full of people who actually believed in the dream that I envisioned for myself and who were taking steps to make their dreams come true. It felt, however, that they were the truth and I was just an imposter, because every time someone asked me if I was a writer, I said yes, hesitantly, because I wasn’t sure if I myself believed in the response. But I guess what makes you a writer is the fact that you just are…it doesn’t matter if you’re known, if you’re published, or if you’re regarded by others as such – no qualifiers needed – you just are. No apologies needed… “Well, see, I want to become a writer, but I haven’t written in a while, and I actually don’t have anything published yet, I’m just someone who aspires to be an aspiring writer, and maybe after I actually write a piece or two that I’ve performed out loud in a spoken word performance where other people have given me a standing ovation of applause, or after you see my name printed in a few journals or so and I become known in a few circles as a writer, well then yes, I guess you could say that I’m a writer. But right now, I’m just seeing if I have what it takes to become that before I can actually say yes.” Oh – kaay.
After a while I just told myself to shut up Sabrina. You are a Writer. If these people are writers, and believe that they are, then so am I. So am I.