I don't know about you, but I was very reluctant to call myself a writer. Even though I’ve produced a mountain of material, it was difficult to claim that title. I came out of the closet about ten years ago, little by little. First my big toe wiggled out from behind the door, then the entire foot, then a leg, followed by an arm. Showing my face was the hardest of all.
People don’t get to see a writer at work. We self-closet ourselves, buried under a pile of thoughts, aching with the desire to use words to express our creativity. People who know us can only imagine us as a mom, an employee or a friend over a cup of coffee. How can they imagine us as a writer? They’ve never seen us when we’re writing. Writing isn’t like being a singer, a painter or a musician where people can witness your craft as it unfolds before their very eyes. It’s a solitary endeavor without a live audience.
When I finally was fully out of the closet, it was just as I had imagined. Most people thought of my huge body of work as a hobby. I would need a best seller followed by a movie to be taken seriously. Until then, I could claim the title of a writer but shouldn’t expect to be treated as one.
I don’t know if this is every writer's story. I suspect any writer that has ventured out of the closet has fought their own demons, however.
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