Are you a writer?

My Mom is an insurance agent. For most of my life, she's been an insurance agent. That's been such a big part of her identity. She worked in an office, at a desk, and when she talked about work, it was about meetings with insureds and balancing Quicken and adjustors and claims.

For the majority of her life, on the other hand, she was writer and an artist.  She wrote manuscripts and screenplays and poems. She published articles in magazines and went to an elite writing camp. She painted canvases and shirts and socks and could have been seen frequenting art fairs in Atlanta.

I've always known this about my Mom. In fact, it's always been a point of pride for me. My mother, the talented writer. My mom, the creative one. However, I've never really known her as a writer. I didn't read any of her writing until I was an adult. I missed out on really knowing her as a writer for a really long time.

Last week, I was stuck in my apartment in the middle of a "snow storm" (Texas style), and I was out of books. It was really a scary moment for me. (Such simple problems I have.) I approached my box of books, not yet unpacked since my move in September. To the right of the box, I noticed another box. It was full of Mom's manuscripts. I didn't have any new books to read, but I sure did have her writing.

I read one of my Mom's plays that day. You know when you're reading something written by one of your favorite authors, or maybe even someone you know, and the whole time you're reading, you feel the author's presence in the writing? You see them in the story and wonder about the connection between the plot and their own life? You think, "I wonder if this character was influenced by so-and-so?" That happened to me when I was reading her play. I saw my Mom as a writer. A talented and gifted writer.

Her play was good. Like really good. I laughed, and I connected with the characters. I visualized the events in my head as a read. The minute I finished reading, I couldn't wait to talk to her about it. I immediately wished I'd read it years earlier.

My father, on the other hand, has been a writer by trade for as long as I've known him. He's a copywriter, to be exact. He's extremely talented. He has a way with words that often baffles me, and his vocabulary is beyond impressive. He's written songs, both serious and jovial. He's written copy for ads, both print and television. Among my favorites, he's written me countless letters and emails. It's always been a part of his identity. My father, the talented writer.

That's the thing about writing, I think. If you're a writer, it becomes part of your identity. If you stop writing, it begins to fail to be a part of your identity. You're a writer because you write, and you're not a writer because you don't write.

This got me thinking, of course. You either are a writer or you're not, and the thing that dictates that is whether or not you write.

Well, if I'm supposed to be a writing teacher, I should surely then also be a writer. Right? My students know that I write, much like I knew that my mother wrote, but do they really think of me as a writer?

Further, to be a writer, I simply have to write. So, as much as I'd like to stay within my cozy comfort zone and spend more time brainstorming reasons why I'm too busy to write than to actually write, I won't. Out of my comfort zone I go. Writing and blogging.

And what better time to start than during the Slice of Life Challenge? My goal is to write and post three times a week for the month of March. Feel free to hold me accountable; I'll need it.


Here's to being a writer (again), at least for the month of March.