A while back, I went through all my bios and took the word “aspiring” out of it. I’m not an “aspiring” writer or an “aspiring” novelist. I am a writer.
I have written a novel (working on three more, as we speak! Eek!). I’ve even had a short story accepted for professional publication. I make time for writing a novel every day, seven days a week, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
I write. I think that qualifies me as a writer.
So does Chuck Wendig:
Here are the two states in which you may exist: person who writes, or person who does not. If you write: you are a writer. If you do not write: you are not. Aspiring is a meaningless null state that romanticizes Not Writing. It’s as ludicrous as saying, “I aspire to pick up that piece of paper that fell on the floor.” Either pick it up or don’t. I don’t want to hear about how your diaper’s full. Take it off or stop talking about it.
You will always have days when you feel like an amateur. When it feels like everybody else is better than you. You will have this nagging suspicion that someone will eventually find you out, call you on your bullshit, realize you’re the literary equivalent of a vagrant painting on the side of a wall with a piece of calcified poop. You will have days when the blank page is like being lost in a blizzard. You will sometimes hate what you wrote today, or yesterday, or ten years ago. Bad days are part of the package. You just have to shut them out, swaddle your head in tinfoil, and keep writing anyway.
