When I was a little girl I would “write” (scribble on a page) and then “read” those squiggles to my family. When I got older I would tell my sister bedtime stories that would stretch late into the night and be continued for weeks at a time. When I was older I always had my nose in a book. My mom had to make a hard rule: no books at the dinner table.

I’ve always loved the story. And yet, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn’t say “a writer.” I would say I wanted to be a Power Ranger (pink), a whale trainer (regrettable), or, later, a truck driver (for the open road). Being a writer always seemed so far out of reach (yes, further than a Power Ranger). I never thought I could be good enough, that I could produce enough, or that I was creative enough. Writers, real, published writers, were mythical beings to me. I regarded them with awe and reverence.

I planned on always writing for myself, but my expectations were low on where I could go beyond that. I figured I should do the sensible thing and pursue a more “realistic” career than being a fiction writer.

Looking back, I realize one reason I may have felt that way is that society places a lot of expectations on women. We’re supposed to find a good man (without sleeping around too much first), get married in a big, beautiful wedding, then birth beautiful babies and give them our all. It’s so much easier for people to picture the brooding writer (or the starving artist, or the power suit professional) as a man. Why would a woman want that life when she could do such fulfilling things as being a good, supportive wife and doting mother? (Kudos to the women who pursue different avenues of artistry while also building traditional families, and kudos to women who realize it’s okay to step away from that life outline if it’s not what you want. The key is to take care of yourself and your dreams.)

The truth is that you can be a “real” writer.It may take more effort than getting a specific degree in a specific skill for a specific career. It will take more dedication and practice and a thicker skin. But this past year I’ve not only come to this realization but I actually believe that I can do it.

Right now, I’m so lucky to have a job that I love at my local public library. I’m not going to quit that job to become a starving artist. But what if I watched less "Cops" at the end of the day and sat down and wrote instead? The hours would add up, more time dedicated not only to practicing my craft, but to working towards my biggest dreams.

I want to be a stereotypical “writer.” A woman who spends a lot of time alone and sometimes drinks too much whiskey. I want to sleep in and then spend late nights scowling into a computer screen. The thing is, I can do that right now. That’s the romantic vision of the writer, but it doesn’t mean my books and my stories will end up out there for others to read. What I need to do is focus on the realistic steps and work it will take to get me out there. I need to spend quality time with my words and treat them like the priority they are, instead of pushing them off until tomorrow or until I feel like I’m “good enough,” because the timing will never be perfect. The more days that go by without us pursuing our dreams, the more days we lose. Find those extra minutes in your day and they’ll add up to hours. They’ll add up to practice and refinement. They’ll add up to your stories and your dreams.

The first thing we write probably won’t be our masterpiece. We will all face countless rejections. What’s important is that we stay on the path, keep our focus, and remember: we are writers if we’re writing.