One year, I became a writer.

Nothing changed.I still had my day job.My kids still ran me ragged.I was still getting divorced. My writing got rejected more often than not.

But everything changed.

I wrote my first short story at age ten.Over the years I’d published now and again – mostly non-fiction, mainly technical, career-related pieces – and one lonely short story.But until that year, I’d never referred to myself as a writer.

Oh, I would tell people, I want to be a writer when I grow up.Maybe when I retire.Maybe when I have the time.Maybe when I have enough money.Something wouldn’t die, though.I kept taking courses when I’d gather a few dollars together.If I could snag a weekend, I’d attend a conference or workshop.My bookshelves were filled with writer’s books.

I needed to make the change in my head, not my outside circumstances.I needed to honor the gift of who I was.I was given a lot of talents.That’s a blessing and a curse.It took me forty-seven years to determine which talent describes me best.

I am a writer.