It was nothing but spotlights, yellow and white rays, reflecting off brass and glinting silver flutes. But the white-haired man moved his black tails and ruddy cheeks and raised his arms and cried a crescendo: “You play an instrument. Therefore, you are a musician!” I was in fifth grade. For the heavens that lit shadows of angelic beings upon his wide-eyed face I played.
I’ll never forget this conductor. He beamed when our elementary school band and orchestra moved his soul into another dimension. I witnessed something celestial in that moment. And he forever influenced my perspective on art.
In the IG writing community, published and unpublished writers have begun claiming their titles. They’ve decided to recognize the value in their hard work. They’ve realized that a dream isn’t measured by a certain level of accomplishment. Across the Internet’s infinite galaxy, my fellow creatives are proclaiming it: I am a writer.
I challenge you to take this declaration a step further.
You are an author.
You are an artist.
You are a storyteller.
There is power in this. There are beauty and truth in this. You don’t need a book deal or New York Times Bestseller list to meet this title. So I pass on the earth-shattering and shockingly simple logic that an elderly conductor gave to a stage full of children.
You write stories. You are an author.