Once upon a time I was a frazzled mom of toddlers paging through a parenting magazine in a brief moment of solitude. I ran across an ad for a correspondence course on writing for children and decided it was just what I needed to keep the gray matter active in between repeat episodes of Wee Sing tapes and readings of Goodnight Moon.
I was not one of those people who had been writing stories since I was three. I never dreamed of becoming a writer when I grew up. My favorite subjects were math and science, not English. I enrolled in the writing class for fun. That was all it was—or so I thought.
Working on the assignments I discovered that writing touched something in my soul. I have always loved reading and making up stories in my head. Now I was seeing stories come to life on the page. By the time the class was over, I was hooked.
I dabbled in writing for the next fifteen years. A script here, a humor article there. I started a novel, but never got very far. Life kept getting in the way.
Fortunately I listened to my instructor’s advice and eventually found some critique partners that prodded me to write and dragged me off to a local writers’ group. I observed. I learned. I worked up the courage to be vulnerable and allow strangers to read my work.
But …
I considered writing to be no more than a hobby, and I did not consider myself to be a real, honest-to-goodness writer.
Eventually my youngest went off to college—which meant the seemingly unending stream of excuses for not getting around to writing had disappeared (along with a laptop, dorm-sized bedding, crates of clothes, and three guitars.)
Faced with this sudden shift in my reality, I decided it was time to get serious about my writing. I finished the manuscript I’d been puttering around with for years. Sent if off for professional feedback (yikes!), returned to the drawing board, and completely rewrote it. Since then I’ve completed a third and am working on a fourth.
Somewhere along the journey, I began calling myself a writer.
At first I felt like a pretender. Sure I was writing, but did that make me a writer? Doubt would creep in. Then I would hear the same encouraging message from the lips or keyboard of yet another writing professional:
If you write then you are a writer.
Even me, the math-nerd engineering major who never dreamed of writing.
Nowadays I am proud to call myself a writer. Because I have worked long and hard to hone my craft. Because I know how lonely and scary the road to becoming a serious writer can be. But mostly because I am surrounded by so many talented authors who are intentional about nurturing the love of writing in others. Like me.
I am a writer. Is it time you started calling yourself one, too?
Lisa E. Betz believes that everyone has a story to tell the world. She loves to encourage fellow writers to be intentional about their craft and courageous in sharing their words with others. Lisa shares her words through dramas, Bible studies, historical mysteries, and her blog about intentional living. You can find her on Facebook LisaEBetzWriter and Twitter @LisaEBetz
