I have always resisted calling myself a writer. In the most basic sense, you could argue that a child with the ability to write his own name is a writer. I may be a writer by this standard, for I can certainly write my own name, but this is a bit too broad for my taste.
If one were particularly pretentious, he could insist that only those who write well are writers; by writing well, he would of course, imply those who write well by his own standards. There is this fuzzy line from those who cannot write, those who can write, and those who are writers. I can write, but that does not make me a writer. When I think of a writer I think of someone whose principal occupation is writing. By this criterion, I am not yet a writer, although I should hope that I could consider myself one someday. Dreams are not reality, but they can become it. For now, I am merely a student of writing.
Hmm. Interesting way to think about it.
I think it is because of all the books I’ve read. I just can’t bring myself to claim to be in the same category as the true writers, the authors who inspire me! I love to write, and I hope to be a writer, but I think now I just have a pile of raw potential that still has far to go.
I wonder if these “true” writers ever felt this way about the people they liked to read? Just a thought.