It’s only recently that I’ve embraced the “I’m a writer” freak flag and by that I mean, when folks ask me what I do, I say…I’m a writer. A fellow writer asked me how long it took me to admit in public that I was a writer. I’d have to say that I awkwardly attempted to own it pretty early on….see past updates and tweets. It’s interesting to me that every single time…..every time….I say claim my writer status one of two things happens. Some folks tell me that they’ve always wanted to write a book, have tried to write a book or wrote a book OR they ask me how I’ve became a writer.

There are several ways I’m tempted to give answer to this question. I keep the snarky answers to myself. I’ve always been a writer. Any writer has large troves of terrible stories and poetry from their woeful youth, I’m no different. I find that many writers come from crazy families. Not crazy, that’s so hilarious crazy, but crazy as in I’d rather not talk about it. Not that it’s a prerequisite to come from messed up, mentally ill kinsfolk, but it certainly flavors your writing. A vivid imagination bordering pathological seems to be an ingredient as well.

Those aren’t the only characteristics or requirements….I’m sure there are many well balanced, healthy, happy writers out there. I’m one of them….sure it took thousands of hours of therapy to get here. I never stopped writing. There were some speed bumps along the way.  Life has a funny way of changing your path. Beautiful thing is that I’m back on the right path and those obstacles serve as writing fodder! Write on!

Oh, and yesterday’s festivities? Oh yeah, lots of fodder.