Being a writer is weird. Coming to terms with being a writer, even weirder.
I’m a mom, wife, social worker, friend… of all the hats I adorn , the writer’s cap has never fit snug. As if it were picked up at a second hand store. I feel like an imposter when it’s on; does simply owning it make it mine?
My notes app is filled with ramblings of different sorts. My brain is fragmented with ideas. I have scribbles on scraps of paper and notebooks throughout my home and cubicle… And yet, I keep them a secret, because “I’m not a writer.”
Am I only who others claim me to be? Who must call me a writer before I believe it? Feel it? That thought process feels wrong in the grand scheme of my life, so why am I struggling with it here? Whose validation is it that I seek—my own?
Hollow Company: A Memoir of Survival 