It’s in my Twitter profile and how I describe myself on the “About” page of this site.
A word that sits there, staring me in the face day after day.
Yes, I write. I write devotions for work. I edit, rework, and rewrite submissions for the magazine. I draft emails, write a column each month for the magazine, and write on this blog.
But as 2011 faded into 2012, that word started to haunt me a little. Can you call yourself a writer if you never really write?
The answer came more quickly than I’d wanted: a resounding no. I can write it in my descriptions of myself, but if I don’t actually write I’m not a writer. And truth be told, besides this blog, I wasn’t doing much to exercise the gift or talent outside of my work.
For years I’ve told friends about things I wanted to write. A half-finished story I’ve worked on for years that really has no direction. “When I write my cookbook, I’ll make sure this gets in,” I’d say when someone complemented me on a dish I’d made. I’d talk about all the things I wanted to write, but I’d never actually write them.
So, this year, I’m taking the time to sit down and write. Maybe not every day, but more often than not, I expect to find myself sitting in my “office” (read: guest bedroom where my desk is) tapping away on the keyboard for a few minutes to an hour. And all these writing appointments have a goal: to write that cookbook.
I’ve actually even mentioned it to a few people, which is a new thing for me. Usually, I keep my
dreams close to my chest, and only reveal them when they’re so close to fruition I can’t fail.
I could fail on this one. I could quit halfway through and never finish it. But I’m putting it out there, and I’m working on it. It may never be published or sold in a bookstore, but by the end of this year, I’m hoping to have a manuscript of my very own cookbook—a collection of essays and recipes.
It may be the worst idea ever—but at least I’m taking the chance to live the dream. And maybe, just maybe, it will become a reality.