What does mean to call yourself a writer? Does calling yourself a writer make you one? Does it help your confidence, your drive or your insights? Does it foster a feeling that can make it’s way from the brain through the fingers to the screen or page?

What do other people think in your writing community (if you have one) or it outside of it? That you are goal oriented? Artsy? Fake? Bold? Delusional? What does the word “writer” mean to your friends, family, co-workers? If you have the good fortune to get published (in whatever form that means to you), do you share it immediately with your world? The world? Or do you hold it close because (you know, I know, we all know) that there is a vulnerability that goes with sending out your poem, your story, your essay with which you may or may not be willing deal. Answering questions. Waiting for responses. Feeling that your reader isn’t focusing on the right things, doesn’t get the point, or worse, think they do get the point but they don’t. Do you feel like you are defending yourself, or will be?

Or, the dreaded “It’s really good.” [Muffled Scream] “I liked it.” [Bloodcurdling scream]. Argh.

Maybe, then, it’s better to keep it close and cherry-pick the eyes that you allow to set upon it. But if that’s your path, you’re not an artist or a writer, are you? Don’t artists just throw it out there and own it? Don’t they make “art for art’s sake” and worry not about the discussions or criticism, the acceptance or denial, but just about what they learned from the process, and how to make the next (insert – painting, sculpture, poem) hold more meaning, be a better reflection of their intent, show more about the world, their world.

I don’t know. Not sure I ever will. Not sure anyone does. Or, put another way, not sure the answer is the same for any two or more people.

***

After many years or writing on and off, I recently starting re-attempting to publish. I’ve had some success. I think about the above questions and ideas a lot. I have dear friends that have not yet seen some of my work that I am proud of, yet, there are (relative) strangers from writing workshops and (true) strangers who have seen my work in the online litmags. It’s so odd.

Why the reluctance to share with my best friends, colleagues and family but I’ll put something out there for the world to have access to with no concerns at all? Half of me says this can’t be a unique feeling, the other half says it seems totally normal. Anomalous or typical – what I’m trying to figure out is the reason.

***

I wrote a satirical piece that was published in The Haven, a literary magazine that runs through Medium. I hemmed and hawed about sending it out to people that don’t already read the The Haven (which is everyone I know). It’s light. It’s funny. It’s not existential or preachy. It’s not offensive or complex. An editor liked it enough accept it. What could happen?

The title of the essay is “I’ve Never Been Shot, but a Toddler Stepped on my Profiterole.” When you click the link to the publication, there is a picture of three profiteroles with fresh berries and luscious chocolate ganache being poured over them in thin stream.

I sent it out.

“Seth, good article.” Was one of the first comments I got. I threw up in my mouth. Here were all of my fears and inhibitions. Boom. Right in front of my eyes.

Article?

***

I’m working on this. It’s not easy. I’m not a fan of lists of questions that are open ended and really have no answers but that’s where this little exercise keeps returning. Who am I? What do I have to say? Who cares what I have to say? Do I care what people have to say? Why? Why not? Am I a writer, an artist? Not sure.

Maybe, to help find out, I’ll write an article.