What makes a writer? Is it the act of writing, of putting words into form? Is it the act of publishing? Is it the number of books that make a writer? One article, two articles? A blog? Is it the number of readers that makes one a writer? Is one a writer only if it is a profession, a way of making a living? Or is it a sense of who we are, a part of our identity, like being human?
For me, writing is a passion, a celebration of life, a proof of existence, an in breath and an out breath. Am I a writer? The name carries weight for me, a sense of responsibility, a sense of authority. Yes, I write, but I am used to writing for myself. It is my way of organizing my world, of getting to know myself, of growing, of healing, of living. If we can sing, are we a singer? I may not be a singer, but yes, I sing. I have been invited to sing Ave Maria at weddings, even though I don’t do it for a living. And yes, I write. As a child journalist, I have interviewed President Soeharto and written about about my chance meeting with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. But until this very day, it is my daily musings that give me life, from the time they were first published when I was six – before my teacher confiscated my diary for igniting the other students to write in theirs instead of following lessons from the blackboard…
How about you? Do you call yourself a writer? What do you write? How? What happens when you write?
I suppose we are all authors of our lives – whether we frame it in the first or third person, whether we feel the plot is one we create or one we feel granted with. I suppose this is what this blog is about. It is my sharing of a journey of a soul, of my way of making meaning. It is a journey where each step is a word, each path a story. It is the authorship of life.
I invite you to come along, if you like. I look forward to seeing you throughout the journey.