I am a writer.
The first time I said those words to a stranger, I was standing in the emergency department of a children’s hospital while my five-year-old son struggled to breathe.
I’d thought those words many times in the privacy of my own head. Once or twice, I’d even suggested to friends that I could, sort of, possibly, maybe, one day be something like a writer. I had three completed manuscripts on my computer, but not only were they not published, they were probably not publishable. I wasn’t a writer.
And yet every article I read online told me the only prerequisite for calling yourself a writer was to, well, write. I made up my mind to tell someone.
But I didn’t. ...