These days, I can typically track how busy I’ve been by how many days go by between each of my blog posts. Since I started doing this, I’ve missed days at least twice (if not more). 

This is the longest it’s been between postings. But it wasn’t totally because I was busy. 

The truth is, I’ve been dejected. In September, I wrote two pieces for submission — one fiction, one creative non-fiction. Neither one made the cut. 

Since the start of the year, I’ve been questioning my ability as a writer. And suddenly, hit with these two rejections, one of which I didn’t even really care about getting into, my entire professional identity came into question. 

Who was I, if not a writer? And could I even call myself a writer if I wasn’t getting published enough? 

Even as I hit milestones in the other work I do, I wonder why this hasn’t been happening for my writing. 

What if this was as far as I could go? The thought frightened me. 

So I worked on other things. I read books, played games. The blank screen suddenly seemed like the scariest thing in the world. 

But then I remembered something I’d read years ago: the answer to the question “when can I call myself a writer”. 

When you write. 

So I keep writing.

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