i'm grown up now, but am i a writer?

When we moved into our building, Blake told our supers that I was a writer. Periodically, when they see me out on the stoop relaxing with Garrett, they ask me how my writing is going. Always I am at a loss for what to say. After all, I'm not technically a published writer, nor am I currently trying very hard to get published. And I think that, to so many people, having your work published is what makes you a writer. But it makes me wonder: if I don't write for a living, but I write every day, can I still call myself a writer?

I suppose, if you look at my history, you might argue that I am published, if only slightly. I spent a year and a half writing for my high school newspaper. And during my sophomore year of college, I had some poetry published in the school literary journal. Though it hasn't resulted in a printed version of my work, I've placed well in a few writing contests: an honorable mention for short fiction in The New Era magazine, third place for a poem while at Ricks, and third place for my 100-word story in a short-short story writing contest at BYU. Still, though. That was then. Can I call myself a writer if my now is not like my then?

But, Lindsay, you might be saying, you write frequently on your blog. You publish posts to your blog. Doesn't that count? And I ask, I'm not sure, does it? Is this blog more than just a public journal or a communication with faraway friends and family? Have I harnessed an audience who reads me more for my ability to write than they do for the family updates? Again, I'm not sure.

Whether or not you could title me as a writer, I do consider writing to be more than just my hobby. It is my craft, my art. Words are my medium and I mold them into sentences and paragraphs just as an artist would turn a chunk of clay into a beautiful sculpture. I love twisting grammar to my advantage. Word choice thrills me. And while I know that sometimes there are typos and mistakes sprinkled in my writing, there are, at the same time, rarely ever accidents in what I create as every detail, every syllable, is carefully considered. I keep a notebook and something to write with on my person at all times, and I pull it out frequently to jot down ideas or a pleasant-sounding combinations of words or an opening or closing sentence. I don't necessarily flesh out every idea, but occasionally one sticks with me and eats away at me physically and mentally until I'm finally able to spit what I'm trying to say out on paper. Though it is not what I do for a living, I do devote myself to this craft, and everything I write, from blog posts and comments to a short story or poem, is awarded some measure of care and devotion. It can be exhausting, and I'm not always satisfied with what I produce, but I love it just the same.

Here is what I write: I write my day-to-day personal history in my journal. I write carefully crafted letters and emails. I contribute to a monthly writing group. When writing for an audience (i.e. on my blog), and sometimes also just for myself, I write personal essays. Occasionally my ideas come out looking like poems, and less often looking like fiction. I'm not very good at writing fiction -- can I still be called a writer?

I do write. I might not be prolific, but I do write. Whether or not I'm any good is not necessarily for me to decide, but I must admit: I do think I'm decent. So maybe I am a writer.