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Embering


"I am not a writer."

"I’m not creative."

"I don’t have much of an imagination."


Countless times, people have shared these self-doubts with me, wholeheartedly believing them to be true. They declare their non-writing identity with a laugh and a tone of self-deprecation. Yet, after a few questions, a different truth emerges: “Well, okay, yes, I do write in one particular instance, but it’s not real writing. Not like what you do.”


At this point in the conversation, I often say, “Funny you should say that. I have a hard time calling myself a writer too.”


I’m not being facetious. I still feel a little breathless when I tell people I’m a writer. When I do admit that I write, I say it quietly, as though the substantiality of my claim is reflected in its volume. Even now, I worry that if anyone pokes at the identity, even a little—if they ask what I’ve written, or where they can buy my book—the façade will fall away. The real me will be revealed: a wannabe (okay, ‘aspiring’) author, a wordsmithing hobbyist, a no-one-has-heard-of-me-or-read-my-work “writer.”


There’s something that feels forbidden about claiming a creative identity. Writers, the belief goes, are rare and gifted artists endowed with a mysterious linguistic prowess that compels the muse to speak through them. They are the innately talented and oftentimes tortured geniuses who spend their time working on the next great American novel and autographing copies of their six-figure NYT bestsellers at sold-out readings.


On the opposite end of the spectrum, you might argue that a writer is simply someone who writes. The verb transforms to noun, an action becomes an identity. But this feels too simplistic. There seems to be a difference between writing a message on Slack or a toast for a wedding and penning a story or a poem. A difference of expression and intent. Writing in our day-to-day isn't the same as writing a novel...right?


A few years ago, I was asked to teach a class in Professional Writing for Antioch University, Santa Barbara. Honestly, the class I inherited was one that I would have never, ever signed up for as a college student—its only promise an aching tedium of resumes and cover letters. No creativity was required for completion of the syllabus that had almost certainly been built in the early 2000s (how do I know? Because it spent an entire week on ‘the advent of email’ in the workplace).


But in my own professional experience, I had encountered a different angle—creativity, I found, was instrumental to communication on every level. As a teacher, I wanted to poke holes in all of the perceived differences between creative writing and professional writing, and ultimately, between ‘real’ writing and ‘not-really’ writing. So I threw out the syllabus and built a new one. My class was anchored in the fundamental belief that everyone is creative, and everyone is capable of being a writer. Instead of formulaic lessons focused on syntax and grammar, my classes explored authenticity of voice, passion for subject, vision for message, and techniques to build a deep connection with the reader.


On a fundamental level, writing is just the use of language to articulate and express ideas, thoughts, feelings, and experiences in a way that impacts other people. So what is a writer? Someone who uses language to articulate and express their ideas, thoughts, feelings, and experiences, and connects with others by sharing it. And people who use language to connect even more deeply with themselves. How you feel about writing, how you judge your writing and the writing of others, what you write or how you write it or why or how often, or what other people think about what you write, or, or, or…everything else is just context.


The experience of writing presents the same challenges for people who call themselves writers and those who do not. Both will find that saying what you mean and meaning what you say is no simple feat—and that, often, writing is actually the means of uncovering what it is you really think. Both will discover that writing is a series of a hundred decisions, each of which cascades into more decisions. Both will encounter (many, many) moments where the words that land on the page look nowhere near as amazing as what they envisioned (hi 👋). Both will spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about who will read it, if it’s any good, if it’s interesting or original, if it even means anything at all.


So really, the identity of “Writer” doesn’t matter. Claim it or don’t. Whisper it, shout it into a megaphone, or hold it in a dream. But keep writing. Or start writing. Use your voice to say what you need to say, as well as you can say it.


What matters most—what makes a writer a writer, at the very core—is the call. The beckoning. The embering glow of something that longs to be made real. The yearning to share what you love, what fascinates you, what you experience or think or hope or fear. That tender insistence to put it into words. Even when it’s just a whisper: There’s something I want to say.

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