Seattle adventures, life, home, and coffee—in no particular order
A few years back, I ran into a high school acquaintance, and she introduced me to her partner as a writer. There I stood, flustered, awkwardly shrugging off that title. He could have cared less about my hesitation, but I find myself coming back to that moment. What is it about that title that I feel so ill-equipped to claim?
I write. I even get paid for it. I string words together into sentences, fit those sentences into chunks and arrange those chunks into some greater arrangement. But rarely, if ever, do I call myself a writer.
Earlier tonight I heard Dan Webb talk about his craft. His presentation left me feeling inspired … and also a little lacking. Dan is so focused on his passions and has built an identity around them. He’s a sculptor. A photographer. An artist. And he doesn’t hide from those identifiers. I don’t do anything so well as that.
I like to ride my bike, but I’m not a cyclist. I’m not especially good or fast or fit. I only just switched to “real” pedals, and even then, I fell over in my back yard a few dozen times before I got the courage to trade grass for pavement.
I like to plant things, but I’m not a gardener. I have trouble keeping those things alive. I forget to weed, then I forget to water, then I confuse weed with lettuce blend and say to hell with it and tear it all out, and then my veggie garden ends up a sad, forgotten wasteland.
I like to read, but after you graduate from kindergarten nobody is very impressed by basic literacy. I might call myself a reader, but it’s not a badge of honor so much as fact.
I like to write, too, but why is it that I have trouble calling myself a writer with a straight face? Is it because I don’t eat, sleep, and breathe the English language? Because I have yet to write the next great American novel? Because I’m a woman? Because I lack confidence in my words? Or because I’m just not all that good at what I do? (Don’t answer that.)