"One little year? Is that all it's been?
One
little
year?"
--Margaret Tyzack as "Antonia", I, Claudius.
I have been a contributor to E2 for one year today. I feel ...
Uncertain.
I've always loved to write. But in the last year, I've learned what a monumental effort, what a struggle one can suffer when trying to compose one's chaotic thoughts for presentation to others. I'd never experienced the sensation of actually fighting the language til I came here, and started contributing (and refining) writeups here.
Writing is now a job for me; not all the time, but certainly most of the time. No longer do words come flowing out of my pen onto paper, only to be hidden away, seen nevermore. Now ... I have an audience. Now ... every thing I share may be someday seen by someone I might not care to have share. It's difficult. It's challenging. It must be fun, because I continue to do it.
And it is fun. Really. But it's also a lot of hard fucking work.
Is this what it means to be a writer?
Am I a writer?
I don't know. I'm still learning. Maybe I'll be able to answer this question next year. Maybe I'll never answer it.
Maybe it doesn't need to be answered. Maybe the journey is more important than the destination.
What do you think?