I spent the entirety of my teen years writing. When all the other kids in my Creative Writing classes were planning out back-up careers “in case writing didn’t work out,” for me there was only one option:
I am a writer.
Through and through.
Spending my formative teenage years focused on only one goal has embedded it deeply into my identity. Sure, as an adult I’ve thought of other options that could keep me busy once my children are old enough to manage themselves (and help out around the house, ha ha), but everything seems gray and lifeless compared to the prospect of weaving characters and worlds to indulge in. How could I exist without those other identities living inside of me? Even if I never find a single reader, I would still write novels.
It’s who I am.