Though I’ve been writing for years, I can finally say it. I can say it aloud and without shame. No more mumbling or down playing it.
And it’s not because I’ve been published. It’s because I’ve discovered that I have an innate need to write. And that – that alone – makes me a writer.
Let me try to explain.
As a child, my family would go on vacation to all kinds of different places. There was just one requirement: my father had to be able to do some sports. There had to be a tennis court or a fitness room or something similar. If these weren’t available, he’d get moody within a few days. In fact, growing up, I never knew a week to go by without my father playing sports at least twice a week. It wasn’t for the social contact (as he does individual sports). It was his passion. A passion I (unfortunately) never inherited, and I never understood until now.
In the first half of this year, I didn’t write at home. I didn’t write at work either, as I only had to do editing. And because of my move at the end of last year, I had to set my hobby aside for a while. When things finally settled, I was drained and tired. In the evenings I couldn’t find the energy to write. After endless evenings of watching TV, I felt bad. I was in a rot.
Then I just started writing! I can’t remember what spurred me, but as I wrote I felt the difference immediately. I realise now that writing is my ‘sport’. It’s my passion. It gives me energy and I get moody and insecure without it.
My father was never a professional player but he is a sportsman. Even nearing seventy he plays whatever sport his body will still allow him to. So, I may not be a published author, but I’m a writer and I’ll be writing as long as my mind will allow me to.