I Call Myself a Writer
A Poem by Karen Edwards
I call myself a writer even if my name never appears in a blog, on a byline or book jacket.
I call myself a writer, because I surround myself with language, the precise selection of the written word, and the art of telling stories which are both life-altering and life-sustaining.
I call myself a writer, because I am compelled to select, arrange, and document my thoughts, feelings, experiences, and memories.
With untiring fingers curled around a pen or bent ticking away at the white letters on a keyboard, I write because, like the freckles on my face, writing is part of what makes me, me.
I used to think I had to pay my dues. That I had to first climb out from under a pile of scribbled-in journals and rejection letters to prove to the world (and myself) that I earned the title.
I call myself a writer, because I continue to study the craft and challenge myself to write about the things that make me want to run, cry, laugh and love.
I call myself a writer, because I voluntarily burrow into the itchy wool emotional depths of my past, seek the lessons to be learned, follow the light out, and use the written word to tell my story.
I call myself a writer because I am.
Karen Edwards – a native New Yorker, left her corporate job several years ago and rejoices everyday she is not confined to a cubicle. She is working on a book about the challenges of living in a marriage of illusion during the 1980’s AIDS crisis that claimed the life of her first husband. An amateur photographer and lifelong runner, she lives in a river town in New Jersey along with her husband, two teenage boys, two guinea pigs and a cat named Murphy.