I am a writer. I’ve been writing stuff down since I was a kid, although I wouldn’t have known then to identify myself as such. I get tangled up in labels sometimes: What is a writer anyway? It’s not like being a doctor or a lawyer, there is no certificate (maybe the BA in English, or the Certificate in Journalism help?). Most of us learn to write as many of us learn to read. Some of us live to; I’d put myself in that category.
I write in order to find out what I think; I write in order to find meaning. I write so that I will remember what it is I did last week. I try to write for fun too. I journal, I blog, and I am working on a novel. I hope to have readers, but it’s not why I write. Sounds odd, but I believe it’s true.
I am also a reader. I have lots of books, though not as many as when I lived in a house. I had a bunch of cats when I lived in a house, and I still have one for some reason. I’m not sure why cats and books go together so well. Perhaps it’s because cats don’t seem to mind when you don’t move for hours while you read. The cat I have now seems to prefer that I do nothing else, except of course feed her.
I have children, but they’re all grown up into adults, and so I am in recovery from thinking I need to look after them. It’s going reasonably well. They are individually and collectively wonderful.