When I started writing I was a child full of enthusiasm. I had no idea that anyone would consider it difficult. All I needed was a piece of paper and a pencil. I was eight when I recognized the voices in my head as characters awakened by life’s infinite possibilities. They could be spooky or funny, sad or wise depending on how and where they presented themselves.
The graffiti covered side door to the local theater led to a story about a young girl who mysteriously disappeared during a Saturday morning cartoon fest, kidnapped by the projectionist who looked just like her long lost Uncle Pete. A field of wildflowers inspired a funny story about stopping to smell the roses only to get your nose stung by a bee. Brothers and sisters became heroes or villains depending on whether or not they were willing to share their ice cream.
I was a writer no doubt about it. No one paid me for writing. No one told me I couldn’t do it. I heard the stories, I wrote them down to be read later and I enjoyed them. I was a writer. I am a writer because of those things. I am not a writer because someone pays me for it.
YES, I want to be paid for it. It is my dream to get paid a lot for it. BUT, the payment does not make me a writer. The writing makes me a writer.