You don’t need a degree or even to be particularly good to be a writer. You just need to write.
Being a writer is like trying to row through dark, choppy waters to the glistening light on the shore. It’s basking in the indigo morning light while mourning doves sing, marveling at the sight outside of your window. It’s staying awake when you should be asleep, images moving in your mind like a movie reel.
It’s more struggling to find the right words than actually finding them. It’s retreating to your room with a steaming mug of coffee to stare at a blank page. It’s people asking why you’re so quiet, while you try in vain to be more outgoing.
Writing happens even when you’re not physically writing. Story ideas may hit you at any time: the shower, where ideas seem to slip down the drain with the sudsy water; in class, where you race to write it down before it disappears into the air along with your professor’s lecture; and right before you fall asleep, when you rouse yourself to hastily type it into your notes on your phone.
Creating your own world comes with risks. You might fall into a trance developing it while someone is talking to you. You run the risk of people thinking that you’re a little insane. Being a writer is thinking that every story idea you come up with is the one you’re meant to write, when most beginnings are abandoned.
Writing is more than writing, it’s turning yourself inside out. It’s painting a white page with the pastel colors of your soul. It’s wrenching your emotions into some type of understandable prose.
Writing is the life preserver when you’re drowning; it’s the key when you’re feeling trapped.