“Am I ever really going to properly be a writer? Or will I just pussyfoot around it for the rest of my life and then die?”

That question came to me yesterday. Not in a despairing way, not in a judgmental way, not in a rhetorical way. It came to me in an entirely curious way, as if I were watching my life from the outside, like a movie:

“Will our protagonist ever get serious about her writing? Or will she die without getting around to it? How’s this one going to end?”

I feel like I should be a writer.

I feel like I should be a writer.

This is not an unusual feeling. Just this morning I was talking to a friend and she said, “I should have been a writer.” I don’t know why the past tense, it’s not like she’s on her deathbed, but that’s not the point. The point is, a lot of people feel like they “should” be a writer, or they’re really a writer but they somehow got distracted by being an accountant or a lawyer. They definitely have a book in them which they will write when they have time, when they retire, when they get a chance.

Feeling like I should be a writer means next to nothing.

I’m already a writer

I’m already a writer. I write.

I’m writing this, right now.

I write personal blog posts, and business blog posts, and essays for my newsletter.

So what do I mean by “properly be a writer”, if what I already do isn’t enough?

Do I want more readers? If I wrote blog posts that were read by hundreds or thousands of people, instead of dozens, would that make me a proper writer?

Do I want more recognition? If I were on the radio or podcasts or YouTube being interviewed about my writing, would that make me a proper writer?

Do I want more money? (More than none, that is?) If I got paid for writing, would that make me a proper writer?

Do I want the third-party validation of being published? If my writing was published on someone else’s blog, or a magazine, or as a book by a publishing company, would that make me a proper writer?

Do I want to take myself seriously as a writer? If I dedicated more time to writing, and worked harder on it, would that make me a proper writer?

Does the world need my writing?

I’m a middle-aged white lady going through a big life change. Oh goodness why isn’t anyone talking about this?

I’m being sarcastic. Every middle-aged white lady going through a big life change seems to write a book about it. Every possible take has already been taken. What can I add?

There’s an argument that everyone has something new to add, and that you (you-everyone) should definitely make your art or write your songs or whatever because your take is unique and valuable just because it’s yours and you are unique and valuable. And I believe that.

I believe that, to a point. But there’s a difference between making your art and taking up a lot of space with it. It’s a fact that certain kinds of people (white, male, rich) take up too much space in the world, with their art and their opinions and their takes. I don’t want to be part of that problem.

I mean, I’m already making my art: I already write. So maybe being a proper writer means taking up more space with it, and I don’t want to do that.

Or is that just a handy excuse for me, a nice progressive-looking way to avoid the discomfort of trying?

Maybe. But it could also be true.

What next?

What would it take to properly be a writer? What would it take to satisfy myself that I’m properly being a writer?

The first step would be to figure out what I need to feel like a proper writer, given that, as I said before, I’m already a writer.

Do I need to be published? Do I need to be read by more people? Win an award? Earn lots of money? (God help me if that’s it.)

After I figure that out, it would take the same thing it takes to make any kind of change in life: new habits, new skills, and new structure.

I’d need to find out what skills, habits and structure I need to develop. Then I’d need to commit to doing whatever it would take to develop them, and I’d need to persist until I made the thing happen — or I died, whichever comes first.

But first, before all of those things, I’d need to decide to do it.

I’d need to decide that this is a thing that’s important enough to really work on, to face whatever demons and obstacles are in the way. I’d need to decide to take it seriously.

And that’s the part I haven’t done yet.

I still don’t know

I don’t have an answer to my question, of whether I’m ever going to properly be a writer, or if I’m going to pussyfoot around it until I die.

I don’t even know what it would take for me to decide.

There’s a very good chance that I’ll keep on putting this off, not making the decision, until I die. I’m already 47, after all. I’ve put it off this long.

Watch this space, I guess.