I think I want to be a writer.
Never mind that think part.
I want to be a writer.
Ok, maybe that sounds stupid – I mean, I write this blog, right? But there is a reason for this random declaration. I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer. In school writing has a always been an academic strength for me, and I am the first to say that emailing me is always better; I abhor talking on the phone and there is something about the written word that lets me say exactly what I want to, in the way I want to. And I’ve always loved making up stories. But I couldn’t be a writer. Aren’t all writers broke and living in dingy apartments in the sketchy part of a city, living off stale coffee & Snickers bars? That is not me. And for a long time, I figured that meant I was not nor could I be a writer. And left it at that.
And then I went to Italy. Ha, I can’t tell you how often I have used that sentence when talking about what about me has changed recently. [More on that later.] I got on that plane a half-broken person. I returned strong, confident, and more self-assured than I thought was possible for me. It’s pretty cool.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that M.F.K. Fisher quote, why she writes about food. Because it’s a basic, everyday thing with millions of different meanings and symbols that most of time are not given a second thought to. I’d really like to be a travel writer with a focus on food, because I think when you travel and get away from the norm, you naturally just start seeing things differently, in a broader scope, and it’s fun to write about those new discoveries.
I don’t know why I wrote all this. It’s certainly nothing I haven’t written several times before. But maybe if I declare it, “out loud” in a sense, it’ll happen?
I’m a writer.