I am not a Writer. I do not claim to be a Writer, nor do I have any desire to say that I am a Writer. I do not feel like a Writer, nor do I romanticize the idea of writing, publishing, or my words being read. Writing it is not the action I would choose for pleasure or do because I feel more myself when I do it. Writing is something I do out of necessity – I have to write or the words will not leave me alone.

Even just putting that down feels shameful, like admitting a drug addiction, but somehow worse. Worse, because to write and publish it says that I am in possession of the hubris to think somehow my thoughts and words would be worth reading. That hubris, that arrogance, that self-importance, that audacity in someone like me is often framed as the worst sin; to pretend even for a moment that I am somehow worth taking seriously as more than a possession, distraction, accessory, or sidekick is still enough to have people publicly call for my head on a not-so-proverbial pike.

So no, I am not a Writer. Nor am I an Artist, or Painter. I claim no titles, no honors.

I simply do the work necessary with whatever tools I have at my disposal to find peace inside of my own self.

Sometimes that’s writing.