I accept that I’m a writer. But that’s pretty much it. I don’t know the rest. I’ve been attempting to figure that out for a long time. Identity, style, personality–sometimes I feel like none of these exist without my ability to be a writer.
I tie a lot of things into my so-called “way of life.”
It’s frustrating, it’s terrifying, and occasionally, I stumble onto these kinds of thoughts of–
Who am I?
And, who am I as a writer?
Sometimes I think writing is all I’m about. Other times, I can sprout an idea that makes me hopeful for my future as a writer. But, is it me? Of course, it is. I’m a writer. I don’t doubt that anymore. I used to. But, denial is a thing. Just as much as blind hope.
I know I’m a writer.
But, what do I plan to do now that I know that?
Why does that question stress me out more and more everyday?
Like I’m running out of time.
I’m not hopeless, though. I accept that as well. I know because if I didn’t believe I could write to some degree, I would’ve never started a blog.
So, who am I as a writer?
That–
I don’t know.

Yet.