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Writing is a strange and mysterious thing

I chose this course because I love to write, and because it was centered around London, a city I wasn’t familiar with but admired from across the Atlantic.

I guess I would consider myself a writer, because I often write and have been published and won awards for my writing. But often times I don’t feel worthy enough to call myself a writer. I don’t feel talented enough, or I don’t write as often as I think I should. Then I think, though: we are all writers this day in age aren’t we?

We text, we email, we make Facebook statuses. This is all writing, no matter the prestige of the platform where we are writing. It’s all writing, and it’s a privilege we all learn from the time we’re young in school. I love that. I love that anyone can be a writer. And yet.

Here I am painstakingly trying to make a career in something that everyone can do. And who’s the judge if I can really do it well or not? E.L. James’s 50 Shades of Grey made millions, and lots argue that she can’t write. (which she technically can. see paragraph above)

Weirdly enough, I started this blog post off with the intent to talk about the struggles of writing a short story, but it turned into a tiny meditation on writing. I’m just a little frazzled over the mix up of professors in the class and the confusion with assignments. But it’s nice just to get what’s in my head on a screen sometimes.

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