I Am/I’m Not a Freelance Writer

I don’t always meet my own expectations.

I woke up this morning in a fresh state of despair over my writing. Apparently I have recently come to realize that, as a writer, I am a fraud. Oh sure, I’ve done many of the things that define a writer — I’ve been writing in one form or another since I was old enough to form complete sentences on paper, I kept a journal as a teenager, published poetry in the high school newspaper, made a pathetic stab at writing in the romance field (a one-shot attempt that taught me what kind of writer I definitely am not), established two blogs, written and sold articles on numerous topics to numerous sources and published half a dozen books on Amazon. In recent months, I have thrown my hat in the ring at Medium.

From the looks of that list, I might be bold enough to declare myself a writer. Yet, today, I feel like anything but a writer. Today I question my ability to jot a coherent note on a Post-It, let alone generate paragraphs or pages of words inspiring enough to garner the attention of, well, anyone. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t write for attention. Well, I don’t write solely for attention. I would be remiss to say I don’t get an adrenaline bump from a few kind words or a monetary reward for my efforts. I’m only human, after all.

Much of my writing has never made it beyond my notebook or tablet. Some of it was never allowed to survive much past the day it was written. I am, undoubtedly, my own worst critic. I don’t think I want that to change. I was never one to trust the criticisms outside of my own head — I’ve been praised and rewarded for some writing that I considered garbage and totally ignored on pieces I felt revealed a true insight on my part. I’ve never known who to believe so I tend to follow my own bliss.

So, you might wonder, if I claim to trust my own judgment so much when it comes to my writing, why do I suddenly consider myself a fraud? I think it’s because, deep in my heart of hearts, I always wanted to be able to legitimately call myself a ”real” writer. More than a vocation, I wanted writing to be my identity, my career, the definition of the life I’ve led. I don’t do that. I can’t do that. I have never done that. Today (for perhaps the two thousandth time) I know I will never do that.

When my life is over, I do not believe I will have left a legacy with my words that will matter much to the human race. As an avid reader, I am well aware of the many writers out there who have such a legacy. Put my ego in check Is that egotistical of me? Is it too much to say that I would really like my words, some of my words, ANY of my words, to lead someone out of despair, into the light, or to expose them to an idea they never thought of before? Is it too much to ask for my life to have some lasting meaning?

The pendulum swings both ways Before someone sends me a link to the suicide hotline, let me just say — the fraud that lives inside me will soon disappear into some dark recess of my mind (undoubtedly to return another day). I know the drill when it comes to my writing muse. I write because I must write. If I physically try to stop, my crazy brain will continue to generate stories and ideas. The words never stop. Tomorrow (or the next day) the fraud will disappear and the impassioned pseudo writer will reappear (my writer’s version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde). The cycle will repeat itself, of that I am sure. That, perhaps, is the writer’s legacy I will leave behind.

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