Lately, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I ought to be calling myself. It’s my understanding that titles are either earned, bought,(often a little of both) or bestowed by those qualified to do so. And so, you can see why I feel a bit like a fraud every time I call myself a writer. Yes, I call myself that — among other things. I even have the designation ‘Writer’ listed on all of my calling cards, as though it were some desperate attempt to justify myself. True enough, if I would have instead called myself ‘High Queen of the Fire-Breathing Elephant People’ VistaPrints wouldn’t have cared in the slightest, nor stopped to question my sanity.

At least when I call myself a mother, I can hold up one of my beautiful, squirming spawn as proof of the claim. Okay, so I do have a finished manuscript now. I suppose I could hold up the flashdrive backup copy and feel better about declaring myself a writer. But even as I consider that inane bolstering of my self-esteem… I get this image in my head of a galloping Richard Simmons crying out, ‘I’m a Pony! I’m a Pony!’

Just as Mr. Simmon’s claim and imitation does not, in fact, make him any more Equine — I don’t see how having written something necessarily makes me any more of a writer.