April 7, 2013
I asked myself the other day,
Why am I a writer, what made me that way?
That question’s ad hominem, it asks about me,
But it’s true of all writers, counting you thine and thee
Because when you sit, and examine that question
Writing’s more than a job, not just a profession
A person who writes, whether tiny or small
Is always unique, from the first word they scrawl
So now, let me see, we’ve defined some new terms,
A writer’s a creature, not a snail or some germs
But how do they form? Do they pass some hard test?
Or perhaps are they hatched, from an egg, in a nest?
Now I still don’t have an answer to the question I asked,
But now I have new ones, they are rising quite fast
Is there more than one kind, is it decided by age
Can a man be a writer if he’s not old and sage?
To answer all this we might have to digress
Because it is I who must also confess
I don’t have the answers, I don’t know who’s a writer
I just know that I am one, more than lover or fighter
And I don’t know you, I can’t tell if you are
I don’t know if you rhyme or your thinking’s bizarre
Yet one thing I’ll say, and this fact I ensure
If you think you’re a writer, then you are, to be sure
by Nesher Ehrman