When Are You a Writer?

It happened again Friday. I was distracted by the cold flat plate, the tech squishing my left side into a part that didn't look like it could fit. Flat meets round. "So what do you do?" she asked, nonchalant, probably her hundredth mammogram of the day. I stopped, trying to stay still as instructed. She caught me off guard.

I do a lot of things, some of them well, some not so well. I design art, I feed hte Minions, find Things Lost and Hidden, help Sparkly Hubby. Sometimes I sneak in a shower. These things are a given, made tangible through practice and error. But what about writing? Plenty of error there, heh heh.

I paused before answering her, guilty like a teenager caught with cigarettes hidden under a mattress. I did not answer her as she squished me onto the plate because honestly I'm not sure when you can label yourself as such. When one is published, I suppose I will answer different. I surmise that the hours I spend plotting and revising don't count -- simply because I am unfinished.