Because you don’t just choose to become a writer. It’s not an open job fair on your college quad. It certainly isn’t the Top-10 list-making genre used by respected and no-longer-respected media outlets alike. And it sure as hell isn’t because Auntie Yum Yum thought you wrote the prettiest, most emotionally scarred adolescent vampiric prose she had ever wept over while polishing off a bottle of Melancholy Farms chardonnay.
You can think of yourself inhabiting such lofty heights where celebrity (auto)biographers and thesaurus-obsessed foodies exist — and that’s just fine.
Just don’t identify yourself as a writer until you’ve lived a life worth writing about.
Not around me anyway.
(And I’m everywhere.)