For the past year, when people ask me what I do, I’ve never been quite sure what to tell them. I always felt weird calling myself a “writer,” because that’s one of those occupations (like “artist” or “musician” or “international licensed-to-kill spy”) that lends itself to a certain self-consciousness and snobbery. So I’d say other stuff.
“I work for a little marketing agency,” I’d say in March.  But then I got laid off and that was no longer true.

“I’m applying to graduate school,” I said in the spring.  But then I got in, so that was no longer true.

“I’m taking some time off before school,” I said during the summer, “And I’m running the marathon at the end of July.”

“I’m just starting a writing program,” I said in the early fall.

Today, I wrote a few pages of fiction, helped a friend with a graduate school essay, sketched out an outline for a final paper, wrote the outline for a website, and am working on a few sentences for an ad campaign.

Tomorrow, if someone asks me what I do, I’ll be ok saying “I’m a writer,” because that’s what I do.