I have been a writer my whole life, but only recently began calling myself one.
As a child, before I could really write my letters, I drew little flip books and made cartoons.
Later, I filled notebooks with stories I illustrated myself.
Later, I wrote a few poems, and many songs. I have several unsuccessful attempts at novels. For a short time after college, I wrote theater reviews for a local paper.
As an adult, I pursued careers in academia and the music industry, and worked in schools and offices. But I always had the dream of some day writing a novel and getting it published.
After my kids were born, I became a stay-at-home mom. I tried to get other jobs, but nothing came through that worked for our family. And still I hoped to write. The desire only grew with every year, and increasingly I felt like I was delaying something I was meant to do.
Well, when the pandemic hit, I realized I was not going to be getting a job anytime soon. So I decided to answer the voice that had been calling me for so long and pursue a writer’s life.
So here I am, trying to make a go of it. I have my first book coming out in less than three months, but it still feels weird to call myself a writer. I have always felt like that title was reserved for people making a living from their pen, people with an agent or a book deal, or at least a book in print. It feels like a jinx to use the label before my book comes out. But I have also never worked at something that felt more like my “calling” than this has. I don’t really know what a theology of calling would say about that in relation to me pursuing writing. All I can say is that I feel that I have internal and external confirmation that I am on a good path.
So I say I am a writer. I say this with hope and expectation, with determination and anticipation. If you’re reading this, you have found me only steps from my front door, starting a new adventure. Thank you for joining me and seeing me here at the beginning.