everytime i get random compliments from friends about my writing, i get queasy.
during these instances, my response has always been quick, compacted, but consistent: yes, i know how to write, but knowing how to write is different from breathing these words through the ethereal shimmer of a genuine writer's beautiful words.
in any given day, i may be able to spew out my adjectives, pronouns, and linking verbs to come up with a technical writing piece that most American moms may find useful, but does this make me a writer?
i certainly do not think so.
my mastery of onomatopoeias and plurals only makes me adept with words -- but this same mastery, unfortunately, is the reason why a qualified demarcation has to be established between a writer and someone who merely knows how to write.
for me, being a writer requires so much talent, it necessitates obsession, and it thrives within the inextricable union between the writer and his writing. in my mind, it needs to commence with the virtual lack of delineation between a writer's words and the air that sustains his breathing.
the label, unlike other prostituted generics that people throw around without restraint, needs to be guarded against superficial self-claims and undeserved self-gratitudes.
and even when i want to claim that i am a writer, i cannot. even when vanity consumes me incessantly in most days.
because of the mutual respect that i have: for myself and the craft that has both enslaved me and taught me how to hope.