How do I know I’m a Writer?

A writer is a world trapped in a person

Victor Hugo

I’ve decided that one post a month is going to be dedicated to something writerly. So, with a Solidarity Sunday, Reading Roundup, Travelogue and this that would be 4 posts a month which is admirable…no? At least until the kids start school in earnest, I think this is the most I can commit to.

So, for my first dedicated writerly post (though I’ve written about the importance of writing in my life before) I decided I would answer the eternal question: how do I know I’m a writer when I’ve never been traditionally published?

Well, strap in dear reader. Because I have some thoughts.

I’ve written before about how I’ve been writing profusely since, well, since I learnt how to write. However, I don’t think I’ve ever written about why I think this makes me a Writer. So here goes.

Also, disclaimer, this is a personal exploration of what I believe makes me ideally suited to being a writer. This is not a “how to” you need to follow to the letter in order to become one. There are as many different roads to writing as there are writers in this world. That is to say…many. And, besides, why would you take my advice. I’m not even published! Yet.

With that out of the way, lets look at some particular quirks to my personality that lend themselves well to writing.

People-Watching with a Plot

I don’t think I’m alone in indulging in the occasional people-watching sesh. In public, where it is fair game that is. Human beings are incredibly interesting creatures, infinitely varied and full of surprises.

What might set me apart (a little at least) is that when I people watch I don’t just observe what people are doing and how they are doing it. I create entire backstories for them as well as plot points for what is going to occur next in their lives. It’s like I’m watching a movie that I’m writing in real-time. I hope that doesn’t sound insane.

This doesn’t mean I just stare at strangers intently for minutes at a time like a director unhappy with the action on stage. I might glance at someone briefly but their image is almost immediately imprinted on my mind’s eye and the story bursts forth from there. I can envision an apartment filled with plants they are constantly trying to keep safe from their greenery-despising pet. I can feel their nervousness as they shuffle through cue cards of conversation starters on their way to a first date at a dude ranch (not their first choice). And I can tell you that it is going to go extraordinarily well (spoiler: the dude ranch was not their date’s first choice either). So well, in fact, that the two will be teaching their aloof cat and overzealous dog to cohabit within a few months and they will be married by the end of the year in a spur-of-the-moment ceremony on a boat with a ship’s captain as officiant and a seal as best man.

Is this at all accurate? Hardly. Am I psychic? Unlikely. But it sure would make the beginnings of a great story. If for no other reason than to find out how the seal beat out both the cat and dog for the best man spot.

I can’t help it. I’ve tried to rein this tendency in, worried that is might come off as odd. But it’s second nature and, hey, the people in question don’t even know they’ve inspired my next short story.

Memories or Memoirs?

This one might be quite common but I find it peculiar in myself.

Anyone who has read a memoir has likely notice the obscene amount of detail it usually contains. The author opened that letter on a fateful day in June. The sun was high in the sky but the air was unusually chilly. There was a blackbird watching them inquisitively from their perch on the fence as they read. And the exact moment when their eyes ran across the shocking news – a bell chimed in the distance. Also, this happened 62 years ago.

Now, who knows, they might have been a prolific diary-keeper and in the process of writing their memoir they merely had to lift this description directly from the entry penned on this exact day in their personal history.

Maybe.

More realistically, they likely sat down to write this passage about this life-changing letter and wrote down a detailed scene that felt right regardless how accurate it might actually be. It sure makes for a hell of a better passage than, “I read the letter that told me my mother had contracted polio.” Accuracy be damned.

Well, this is how my memory works. All the time. It’s not just for specific scenes, be they celebratory or traumatic, but for every memory I call up for any purpose. It plays, again, like a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster for which I have a birds’ eye view and I can watch myself react as things play out. It’s trippy, for sure, to watch one’s past as if on the silver screen, but it certainly makes writing from experience 100 times easier.

I Can Feel Stories Brewing. Constantly

Finally, somewhat related to the last two points, I almost constantly have multiple stories jostling for space in my brain, clamouring to be let out onto the page.

They are so insistent that when I do finally sit down in front of my computer or, more likely, a blank notebook, I write in almost manic fashion. The second my fingers hit the keys or pen touches paper it’s off to the races and I almost can’t keep up with the words pouring out of me. It has always been like this. And yet, I still doubt my ability.

Some writing sessions are so feverish that I have to come up multiple times for air so as not to simply write until I collapse from exhaustion.

I’m not saying what I write is brilliant but…quantity will hopefully, one day, lead to quality.

Writer’s block isn’t my issue. It’s confidence.

This is what stood out to me about the Victor Huge quote at the top of this piece. I have always felt as if I contain multitudes. Worlds within worlds. And that I have been placed on this earth to share all these tales churning inside me with whoever wants to read them.

Now if I could only convince myself that I’m up to the task…

What about you? Are you a writer? Do you have another hobby that fills you with joy? Tell me about it!

And remember, life (in all its quirkiness) is beautiful.

xo Erin