I rolled over in my bed today and grabbed my phone to check my email. I was excited to get a DM from someone regarding my Instagram page. He complimented me on my writing and asked “what is it you do?”
I began to type a whole long winded explanation, but I then paused because the truth was, I didn’t have a real answer. All I knew was that I wanted to write. Not only write but write well. I wanted to write something cool that would envoke emotion, thought, and a curiousity of what else I could do.
But the problem with that is I’m still learning. I’m still learning the publishing process. I’m still contacting authors for tips for my writing. So do I call myself a student? No. I didn’t jump into this medium to simply be taught. I want to thrive.
So I sat on this question all day long. Until I asked my self what identity as a writer do I have? How can I have the nerve to call myself a author without a published body of work? Who do I think I am? Should I just stop before someone more experienced tells me to?
That was the real question that needed answered. So I said to myself. “Tony. Fuck off. I write because I have a fucking voice dickhead.” And people will love what I write because I’m honest, and honesty always wins, whatever story I decide to tell. People will read, laugh and agree because my story is relatable.” Everyone is either in my shoes or has been here before. I’m not just peacocking, I mean it. There may be others with a honed writing ability but none with my work ethic, williness to welcome criticism and to learn from it.”
I am here to bring others along with me in my journey to that point. So I am not only a author. I went to that email and wrote ‘I am a author in progress.’