Recently, three different people, in three very different contexts, have asked me if I am a writer.   And even though each of these questions has been asked via email, each time I’ve smiled slightly and said, “Oh, no. I’m a reader. The only thing I write is this little blog.”

Then, I thought about it. What if I started saying, “Yes. I am a writer.”?  How might that change things? In this year of discovery, I feel this question can’t be ignored. I’m not sure I want to write a book. But with all the writing classes I have taken, and with the writing I do on this blog, somewhere inside of me a writer exists.

What’s the worst thing that can happen by saying, “Yes, I’m a writer.”?  I suppose someone may be compelled to disagree. Someone might  tell me I’m awful and should never put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard again.  Who cares about that?  I’m doing this for me.

In this A Year To Live course, we’ve been talking about old dreams. Letting go of the ones that no longer matter, and exploring what we think we think our lives will be if we hold on to others.  I had a really hard time with this because I equated letting go with giving up.  I had a sudden epiphany that the two are not synonyms.  I don’t want to give up on three of the goals I listed. But I realized I need to let go of allowing these goals define what I think a perfect life would be and trust that where I am is exactly where I am supposed to be.

That’s what made me ask myself what would be so wrong with saying I’m a writer.  I may not be published, I may not make my living from it, but what opportunities might I find now that I’m opening myself up to this whole new world?

So, now I’m saying it.  I’m a voracious reader. I’m an explorer. And, I’m a writer.