I have written two novels front to back, including revisions and edits. I sent the first one to around fifty agents and received approximately fifty rejections, so I cried for a month and then shelved it. I wrote my second novel, a novel I think is much stronger, and I am just waiting for my last edits to come in before I send it out into the world for further pain and rejection.

I am thirty-five years old for one more month. I’m not old, but I’m also not a hotshot superstar young breakout sensation. I was never going to be that, but there’s always a funny thought in the back of my head that I should have been. Every time I watch the Olympics I age myself out of certain categories. I remember when I was too old to be the youngest medalist (lol) and now I am too old to compete in most of the sports, except maybe golf (further lol). I am not an Olympic athlete; I am keen on sport generally but my body is a delicate flower that collapses under the slightest strain so I need to proceed with caution always. Case in point: I pulled out a nearly-finished sweater the other day because I hated how it was turning out and now I have a repetitive strain injury in my right elbow. What the hell, body.

So I’m not going to break any records or stun anybody. If my beloved book baby gets an agent (big if) and then if my agent manages to sell it to a publisher (oh god) then I will take my little babby advance, probably use it to buy yarn, and then sob into my new sweaters when my poor book gets remaindered. No one does this for the big dollarz or the fun times. I wrote that first crummy novel during the only three months that my youngest child took naps; February-April 2015. I wrote the second one predominantly at Starbucks while paying too much money to have both my kids in preschool every day. It doesn’t make any sense to do this; I could get a job that paid proper money instead of doing this, but whenever I get ready to give it up I full-on weep about how much I want Imogen to be a real, published book. I have journalled every day for the last three years. I have maintained several blogs; I’ve done writing classes; I’ve written two novels. I’ve written two novels! With small children! And yet, here I am, asking “am I a writer y/n”

I think the answer is yes.

I really hope I can do it.