What does it mean to be a “writer?”

It feels, almost, fraudulent to call myself a “writer.” I wonder if the label is only reserved for people who are more accomplished than I am. Maybe they’ve written a couple books, studied English or Creative Writing or something in college, and have some sort of grasp on their particular style.

I guess I write, so technically, I am a writer, but no matter how much I think about it, I feel like something is missing. I often contemplate what it would be like to write full-time, making this my career (and maybe when I’m able to do that, I will have secured the title), but then I worry that writing won’t be enough to keep me fully satisfied. Do I need another thing? I feel like this will afford me a ton of free time, and I won’t know what to do with myself.

Honestly, lately all I’ve been doing is writing stuff and reading books, and I feel conflicted about it all. I recently went through a move (for anyone who may have read “So I quit my job…,” I ended up moving to Colorado through a crazy series of events), and have been unemployed the past few weeks as I settled into my new home.

This has given me a lot more time to dedicate to my writing – nearly everyday when the ideas are flowing – and start viewing this hobby as a more serious endeavor.

I think I’ve realized, since the time I started this blog, that writing is so much more than sitting alone in a room and putting words onto a piece of paper. Writing, to me, is about having a rich life and attempting to express your unique experiences under the tight constraints of language.

The inspiration I find to write comes from these experiences, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s all exciting or positive. A lot of the time when I write, I do so because I trust in the paper and pen more so than I trust in people around me. I know that the paper won’t zone out as I’m rambling on, as people may, and I finally have the opportunity to fully express an idea before the topic has changed to something else (as it does in ordinary conversation).

Maybe I write because I don’t always feel completely heard in my ordinary life. I have more to say, but I kick myself when it seems like I’m dominating the conversation. I feel like a lot of thoughts and ideas have laid dormant in my subconscious for years because I didn’t think there was anyone around who truly wanted to listen; so I kept them to myself.

I like writing and sharing my thoughts with whoever reads this, but ultimately I’m doing it for myself. Creativity, in my opinion, is a very self-indulgent act. And maybe that’s why it feels wrong to give myself the label of “writer.” Do I deserve to indulge this much in my career, or am I meant to do something more self-sacrificial? Why is it wrong to do something purely because it feels good? Is too much of an easy or good thing necessarily bad, or is that the key to finding everlasting happiness?

There is no other feeling to me quite like writing. It’s like I am translating an image from my head into words as I walk around and explore the picture before me. I look at it, as a whole, and then pick out all the tiny details to emphasize certain aspects of the image. The challenge is always trying to find a way to most accurately describe what I am experiencing in my mind. But ultimately, I realize that I’m missing key details and not completely communicating what I truly want to say. This is the most frustrating part of it all. It’s like a puzzle with pieces missing.

I want to communicate my own specific worldview so that I can understand what’s happening around me. And I guess that writing and reading are really just two sides of the same coin, but approached from different angles. When you’re reading, you’re jumping into the image in the author’s mind. Perhaps this image is drastically different from your own, but that’s what makes it so interesting. And then when you’re writing, you’re constructing your own image for others to see.

I suppose this act of communication doesn’t necessarily have to be through written language. Perhaps some other form of creation would be better to express one’s innermost thoughts. Anyway, I think I’ve gotten lost on a tangent; but the question still stands: what does it mean to be a writer? Is this enough for me; and if not, what else do I need to feel fulfilled? Can we find satisfaction through self-indulgent acts of creation?