Then I came to a strange, odd conclusion at one in the morning while staring at the ceiling aimlessly.
I’m a writer.
And that thought alone made me happier than I’ve been for two weeks. I’m a writer, aren’t I? Does it really matter otherwise, what I think I am? Does it matter, as long as I can take these words and weave them together? I may not be the best writer…hell, I might not even be a GOOD writer. But…that is it, isn’t it?
I’m a writer.
And that’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it.
What makes you happy, Tumblr? I can’t say. What makes me happy, Tumblr? Writing. Being a writer. Drawing, creating, and judging my art of its own merit in my humble opinion. Is it a masterpiece…? No. But that doesn’t CHANGE its actual value.
I’m a writer.
A writer.
And that’s powerful, in its own way.
