Don’t ever write anything. Or, better yet, don’t ever say the words “I’m a writer.” As soon as you do, you’ll be hearing the same question over and over, ad infinitum for the rest of your life: “Well, what do you write?”

It’s a difficult question to answer – not because I don’t write, but because I write all the time. I don’t know how to do anything but write. I couldn’t stop being a writer if I tried – actually, I have tried.

I write long, emotional essays about every phase and transition in my life.

Instead of doodling, I write descriptions of the people around me in the margins of my notebook paper.

I draft long manifestos about my goals and responsibilities when, really, I just meant to make a to-do list.

I write for any newspaper, magazine, website, blog, or newsletter that’ll have me, regardless of pay scale. And believe me, “nothing” is a popular choice as far as payment goes.

I write endless notes and letters, even though no one does that anymore. I write lengthy emails no one has any time to read.

On my lunch breaks, instead of meeting a friend, I just sit and write about nothing in particular – that’s what I’m doing right now.

I start a new blog every five seconds.

When I was little, I wrote entire magazines. I authored stacks of spiral-bound novels about princesses and dungeons and evil kings and, occasionally, Disney World.

When I’m passionate about something, I write about it. When I hate something, I write about it. When I don’t understand something, I write about it.

I think in words. I speak and express and conceive in words. All I know is words.

That’s why I’m a writer. That’s what I write.

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