I’m WAAAY overdue on a #readingwritingresistance post, due to travel and life. It’s all outlined in my head; I just have to get it onto the screen.
But right now, I’m pausing to reflect on how much I love my blog. I came in here to quickly look for a couple of writing samples, and I got lost re-reading old posts. And you know what? I really like my writing!
I think my style is fun to read. I think I’m occasionally pretty insightful. I like seeing how my reflections on a topic evolve over time. I appreciate the markers of life events that my blog posts provide.
I enjoy the confirmation that I’ve been mulling over justice issues for years and years; that’s not a front, that’s really and truly me. And I confirmed something else after reading through all this: I am a writer. I’m not always a polished writer. I’m definitely not a consistent or disciplined writer. But I produce content, with some regularity, and at a decent level of quality.
I’ve been loath to claim that label. I’ve always felt that I wasn’t a “real” writer because I wasn’t doing it as often or in whatever way I thought a “real” writer should. I’ve done this multiple times with different labels over the years: always assuming that however I did things didn’t count because it didn’t look exactly the same as how others did it. Never recognizing that it is a way of being and engaging with the world – in this case, processing and communicating my thoughts through the written word – that are at the core of these identities, as much or more than a particular form of activity.
Perhaps this will be the year of finally getting over my BS lack of confidence and being willing to claim my skills and talents without reservation. I am a designer. I am an organizer. I am a leader.
And yes, indeed, I am a writer.