I’ve been getting paid to write for almost a year now. And still, I hesitate to take the leap and bestow upon myself the title of “writer.” I’ve held myself back seeking out new opportunities to write, claimed blogs are for the vain and convinced myself Twitter was out of the question. I pretend to be annoyed with the shameless self-promotion that is part of working for one’s self, but internally I am both jealous and in awe of those who ask the world for validation for their art with no apologies.
Why do I struggle with calling myself a writer? I have no formal pastry school training and yet I brag about my muffins on Facebook more than I do about kids (in my defense my muffins are always sweet, the kids, not so much). If someone doesn’t like my muffins? Well then screw you, person with poor taste. Spit that deliciousness out this instant- your tongue doesn’t deserve such splendor. I bake, therefore- Hell yes, I am a baker.
But when a stranger called SpechallKittee sneers at one of my posts I’m reduced to Jello, frantically hitting refresh for the next two hours in hopes that another commentator called WhiteKnight365 will step in and defend me. Telling myself it’s okay because “I’m not really a writer” is how I cope. It’s also super lame of me.
I can’t say I will change instantly, like a good shortbread dough, some things take time. But I’m working on it. If my muffins are good despite my lack of formal training there’s no reason why my writing can’t be too. And if someone doesn’t like what they read, they can spit it back out.