I’m The Furthest Thing From Carrie Bradshaw

Gentle reminders about the realities of being a writer

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

If you read any journal that I’ve written in, the career goals that I map out each year, or the “to-do” lists taped to my desk, you will find a recurrent theme of wanting to get my book published. You’ll find another goal of wanting to get my play produced. You’ll find a newer list of possible television script pitches. If you dig deeper into my outbox, you’ll read countless emails to literary agents and query letters. You’ll find some polite, albeit blanket statement rejection letters in my inbox, too. And yet, if you ask me what I do for a living at this stage in my life, I’ll tell you that I am a writer.

That’s an answer that I have had a difficult time saying when posed with that question, for there is no bookshelf that holds my words upon it, no stage with actors speaking my words, no screen that displays the stories that I have dreamt up or the ones that I have lived.

And yet, that doesn’t change the fact that I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I write.

I write every single day.

I write on Medium, I write on Collective World, I write guest posts for various blogs, I write wherever I can. I get up every morning, and pour myself…