I’m a writer.
I get paid to write.
I used to write in a fancy office in a fancy building. I used to report to a boss and collect a bi-weekly check and attend company lunches.
Now I write on my couch which happens to be right next to the little home office I put together but never use because I don’t have to. I’m my own boss. My checks come whenever my clients pay me. My “company lunches” are usually still pizza, though. Not much of a change there. Except I get the whole pizza to myself.
Before the fancy office writing job, I was a Production Associate for a pharmaceutical company. I edited the S.O.P’s (Standards of Operations) sometimes. But mostly I made drugs (while wearing a super sexy lab coat and lovely latex-y smelling latex gloves).
Before that…I had a string of whatever jobs and wrote poetry and short stories in my free-time. For zero money. My friends thought they were good though.
Before that I spent my adolescence and teen years writing angsty little poems and stories while dreaming of the day I’d become a famous author and poet. Bless my little heart.
Pop quiz: When did I become an real writer?
Answer: I don’t know.
Nor do I care.
I just am.