It was the summer of 2016, and I was in the midst of my “I graduated 2 years ago and what is adulthood?!?!” identity crisis. Each day, I woke up and felt disheartened. I hated my job and had nothing to look forward to at the end of each day. One day, while drinking coffee in the park, a stranger asked what I did for a living. The second I said “I’m a writer,” everything changed.
Perhaps I was inspired by the college essay I’d written, that I’d reread a few days prior. Titled “My Love Affair With Words,” the essay detailed my tumultuous yet passionate love of the written word.
Maybe I said it because since I was a teenager, I’d written down my favorite quotes from books, said by brilliant writers, and had just started to repeat the habit again.
It could have been because I’ve always wanted to write a book.
As soon as those words left my mouth, I knew them to be true. “I’m a writer.” Somehow, saying them aloud to a stranger aligned all of the pieces. I had finally spoken a truth that I had been carrying with me all along.
Following my confident proclamation, I started writing. I wrote on restaurant napkins, airplane throw-up bags, in old journals, on post-it notes, all in dark permanent marker. I was living my truth, and I wanted every line to be permanent, even if they bled together.
Writing doesn’t necessarily make you a writer though. Half of writing is sharing it with others; handing it over to strangers to decipher and create meaning. So I did, because “I’m a writer.” Since then, I haven’t looked in the rearview mirror once.
Over a year later, I am no longer having an identity crisis. Instead, I can’t seem to stop writing – but for a writer, that’s a very good problem to have.