People don’t usually understand when I utter the unspeakable words. They cringe with a shocked look on their face, almost saying “You can do that?” And it hurts. Who wants to be the freak who says, “I want to be a writer”? It’s like a disease. Watch out, it might be contagious.
It doesn’t flow off the tongue with the same finesse as “I want to be a doctor” or “I want to be an international peace leader and end all possible destruction that faces the earth in the years to come.” The image of a professional writer is often of the “starving artist” barely surviving on the streets of some large city. They sit cooped up in a room the size of a bathroom with walls that have chipped paint, tapping away on a typewriter.
But in reality, that’s not what most writers aspire toward. Not every writer dreams of producing “J.K. Rowling famous” novels. Some people think that purposefully selecting words to string together in sentences sounds like a good time. And I am one of them.