Ever since I was twelve years old, I've called myself a writer. The title felt legit. I didn't need to publish a book or have a byline in a magazine. As far as I was concerned, the fact that I kept a journal and wrote in it nearly every day gave me license to call myself a writer.
Many years ago a young Kansas City artist struggled to get his cartoons published in city newspapers. His offerings, however, were met with rejection after rejection. “Forget it,” editors told him. “You have no talent. Get a real job.” But the artist felt that he did have talent and he refused to compromise his career.