I still remember one of my professors in college saying the following:

“I could never be a writer. I don’t have a big enough vocabulary.”

I pondered that and said to myself, Well, if he doesn’t have a big enough vocabulary to be a writer then I certainly don’t. His vocabulary is way bigger than mine.

This professor meant nothing by what he said. He wasn’t trying to discourage anyone to write. He wasn’t making a pronouncement of the minimum vocabulary threshold needed to qualify oneself as a writer. It was an off-the-cuff remark that to him was seemingly insignificant.

But I have never forgotten it, and for some reason it has haunted me for years.

I’m not good enough to be a writer. Who would ever want to read what I write? 

Is there anything quite so fragile as a writer’s ego?

I spent twenty years trapped in a writer’s body afraid to write until one day I realized that I shouldn’t write for anyone but myself. I will do it because I enjoy it.

So about six years ago I started a writing journey by sitting down with five young aspiring writers and we collaborated on a play. We didn’t know what we were doing but we muddled through it and put together a cohesive work that was a lot of fun.

The next year we did it again with smashing results. And since that time, I’ve decided that I love to write – regardless if anyone else likes to read it.

I’ve written and produced material for 9 full-length dramatic productions. I’ve completed two novels – published one of them – and currently working on a third.

I finally came to this simple realization: like it or not, I’m a writer.

Perhaps I don’t have a big enough vocabulary to be a writer, but if you won’t tell anyone, I won’t either.