I’m a writer. I spent over fourteen years telling myself this. Reading at least a book a week since I was fourteen, spending hours daily punching those damn keys, hoping to be rewarded by the muse with something that someone else can call beautiful.
And, yes, from time to time I did doubt it. I still do.
We have wings glued to our backs, yet sometimes we forget that we can fly. We opt to crawl through life instead.
But the truth is that we’re all writers. In one way or another. We wouldn’t exist otherwise. You see, we have language, so we can speak. We can speak, so we can tell a story. We can tell a story, so we can write.
It’s really that simple.
People have wanted stories since they were painting them inside their caves. This desire is what’s kept The Illiad and The Odyssey alive for so long. And it isn’t just belief in God that keeps the Bible breathing.
It’s the stories.
If we didn’t need stories, the world would be perfect. Or empty.
To paraphrase Balzac, solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine. Life is only as beautiful as the stories that define it.
You’re alive, you have a story to tell. A story to write.
So yeah… you’re alive, so you’re a writer.