A writer? Maybe.

"I'm a writer" I think. It's a thought that catches me by surprise. My handwriting is atrocious. My spelling, like that of a 3rd grader. Still, I think I'm a writer. 

I collect journals. Buying new ones even before the old are filled. In fact, I have hardly ever finished a single journal. The two or three that I've managed to fill over halfway are some of my greatest treasures, although I do mock them. 

"Did I really say that?" I laugh at my attempts to sound well versed and poetic. Still, I know that if I wrote it, I meant it. I labor over word choice, often crossing out words that don't quite fit. 

Yes, my attempts are humorous. I keep trying. I want my voice to be heard. I have something to say and I want people to listen. My empty journals say this more than hundreds of filled pages ever could. 

I am a writer and I am learning to write. Learning to say things on paper that I wouldn't or couldn't say out loud. 

I am a reader. I've always been. Now I am learning that writing for myself is so much better than relating to the words of someone else. I don't have to laugh at my feeble attempts. I'm trying, right? 

I want to fill every journal on my shelf. Well, maybe I'll just buy a new one. A empty journal represents a story yet to be told. It represents an adventure yet to take place. My old, empty journals belong to stories that have already played out but go undocumented. To fill the pages with the present or dreams of the future would be blasphemous. 

Empty pages deserved to be filled, right? Isn't that the purpose for which they were created? Maybe I feel this way because I am a writer. 

Am I really a writer? 

I think. 

I think I am.