Titles Are Not Just for Books

“Isn’t everyone an artist, really?” It’s an interesting question.

What’s in a title?

What makes a person an artist? Or a teacher? Or a writer, like me?

If I create art, then I am an artist. If I write, then I am a writer.

Our culture uses employment as a way to describe ourselves, and unfortunately, that’s often one of the first descriptors that comes up. You meet someone new, and the question, “What do you do?” follows shortly after.

“I’m a mechanic.” “A teacher.” “A journalist.”

However, when the answer is writer, questions follow.

“Have you written books?” “How many?” “Would I know any of the titles?” “Are you rich?”

When I add that the books are in bookstores, people are often surprised that they can just go to Indigo, Amazon, or wherever to find the books I’ve written (and in a shameless plug I suggest you check them out also). It seems bookstores give credibility—a thing that other careers don’t need. Writers often have to defend the title, to prove the thing that makes the career valid.

Every other job, you can ask what someone does. They answer, and that’s it.

So. Very. Simple.

I have worked hard to have people see me as a writer.

The hard work is slowly paying off

On a dark and stormy night—just kidding! It was a warm Saturday afternoon.

I strolled down the alley heading to some shops to purchase a gift for a friend. My neighbor and plumber, Anj, was stopped in her work van chatting with another neighbor. I tapped on the glass and asked where she was headed because I was too lazy to walk and wanted a ride if it happened to be en route.

She told me to hop in.

Anj introduced me to Jordyn, the person she was speaking with when I interrupted, who was also a neighbor I did not yet know.

Then she said, “And this is Angie. She’s a writer.” She hit the beat and continued, “Oh! Wait! I forgot to tell you. We were all standing around talking about the clover I’m trying to grow in my front yard. One of my neighbors said, ‘Oh, that blue house around the corner—you know, the one where the writer lives? She has clover.'”

I grinned.

I was identified as a writer.

That was the first thing someone I did not know thought of when describing me and my place. I am the writer with a yard of clover. Awesome.

I am thrilled to be considered a writer. I have worked hard for the title, balancing my teaching career and my writing career, doing the best I can with all my moments to create and write stories.

I am fully on board with that title. I love it.

The titles of my life

I used to say, “Once a waitress, always a waitress.”

After that, I struggled to call myself an artist, even though I completed a Bachelor of Fine Arts and had several art shows, and even though I sold art and received commissions. I clung to the title of teacher because, for some reason, that career did not need a résumé with a list of accomplishments the way a writer or artist seemed to.

Speaking of clinging

I am going to spend my time clinging to what I love, which is storytelling, whether the story comes in books and other written words or through visual art. Titles matter because they help us understand ourselves. Sometimes they are given to us. Sometimes we earn them. Sometimes we spend years growing into them.

And sometimes a neighbor points in the direction of the house with the clover and casually reminds us who we have become.

I am a writer. And it feels good to hear it from others.

As always, thank you for reading, Lovelies