I am a writer.
It's not something I do for a living. I do it to live. No dollars or cents earned, but when I set pen to paper I achieve the same high as if my bank account filled with millions. It is my comfort in good times and bad, to paraphrase a vow.
It brings grief, changes moods, lifts my spirits.
It defines me.
There was a time when I'd not mention my passion to any living soul. This was my secret, but once I opened the doors, all sorts of tidings flocked to me, reinforcing my self-esteem, and then rob me of any shred of confidence.
It sustains me, brings me to tears, allows a place to hide.
And when I believed there was money in them there words, I found fool's gold in the leprechaun's bucket.
I enjoy an on-again, off-again relationship with the words, have taken up to six months away from my work-in-progress. Yet when I return, the magic greets me like welcoming back the lost warrior.
This is my writing life. My life.