My little girl comes home from school everyday and runs to our craft cabinet. She pulls out pens, paper, markers, and scissors. For hours, she draws, colors, cuts, and pastes. Her projects litter our home--drawings of fairies, snowmen cut-outs, paper glasses, masks, and picture books. Her need to draw is almost compulsive, and her output is impressive. I look at her and see an artist in embyro. And I recognise her need to create.
I'm a blogger because I can't stop the words from coming. They fill my mind all the time. I'm constantly composing essays in my head, spinning words to describe my experiences, or constructing arguments about current social issues. Most of it doesn't get written because I forget a lot of it by the time I have a minute to sit down and write. I'd like to say that what does get written is the best of a lot of junk. But that simply isn't true. I write because the need is compulsive. I process my experiences, my thoughts, and even my positions through writing.
I've resisted the label of writer, because I don't feel like I'm good enough for the title. My prose doesn't hide layers of meanings, my language isn't sophisticated, and I certainly don't entice readers to visit my site in droves. I don't polish every post, preferring to write off the cuff.
However, after watching my daughter create art, I am starting to wonder I could possibly accept the label as a writer in embryo. Is one a writer because you can't stop the words from coming? Perhaps not. But at this point, I'll take it, promising myself I'll work on this craft, developing better skills and someday, perhaps, calling myself a writer. Until then, I'll gladly say that I'm a writer in embryo.