I suppose, now I am out of the closet as a writer, I worry more.
I worry that, because I am writing out loud, in front of you, you’re reading my worst work. It’s likely that my worst work is happening right now because I’ll get better the more I write. Because I’ll meet more experienced writers to advise me. And I’ll meet editors and publishers that will help me see what I can’t see alone.
I worry I am the guy with an iPhone that thinks he’s a photographer. I worry I am the guy with Canva that thinks he’s a graphic designer. I worry I am the guy that moves 26 letters around to make words, and moves words around to make sentences, and moves sentences around to make stories, that thinks he’s a writer.
John Green is a writer I admire. He’s curious and has something to say. In one of his essays in The Anthropocene Reviewed, John is asked by someone he just met if he is a writer. ‘I’m trying to be,’ John replied.
What John doesn’t then do, is explain how and when he thinks he’d become a writer. John doesn’t explain what would have to happen for him to flip from ‘trying’, to ‘being’.
Sales? Readers? Money? Reviews? Awards?
I think I’ll worry less. I’m not a writer. Not yet. I am, however, trying to be.