“She’s a Writer.”

My father introduced me as such the other day. “This is my daughter. She’s a writer.”

I’m 16, sitting on the bathroom floor during a dinner party. My parents have said with a laugh that I’ll never get to where I want to be. “She will never be that.” I’ll never be a writer. Nevermind the plays and short stories. Nevermind the hungry way I want to spend all of my time typing. Nevermind that. I’m crying on the bathroom floor, after being told I wasn’t enough.

I’m 19. I’m cobbling together freelance writitng posts, hitting deadlines and working at my craft. I’m not paid much but it’s something. I’m writing

I’m 22. I’m being paid to write. I have bylines in online magazines people have actually heard of. I’m posting blog posts and trying and trying and trying.

I’m 26. “I just didn’t think you were a good enough writer to get this.” I’m underestimated. I’m always underestimated. I’m a writer. I’m trying.

I’m 29. My life has fallen apart. I’m a writer. and I’m not trying.

I’m 31. I’m introduced as a writer by parents to a stranger. I’ve used my writing to build a career, to make something. To go off the beaten path and try and try and try. I’m a writer.

But I was worth something when I was nothing. And it rings hollow that now, I’m a writer. But for so many years, I was worth nothing, so my dreams were dismissed. And now, now that I’m something, those dreams are worth celebrating.

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