I've known what I want to do since I was twelve. Be a writer. What I never asked myself though is what it means to be a writer. I mean, a writer brings entertainment, an escape, knowledge, truth or fiction, beauty and about a hundred other things to the world. Anyone can write but not everyone's good at it. I'm scared of falling into the latter category. I'm not afraid of being bad, for say, because a wonderful thing about man-kind is it's capability to evolve, to improve, to get better with time and practice. I'm afraid of never being understood. You can write all you want, but if no one's willing to read what you have to say, whether it being an essay about nuclear power or a bed time story, if nobody appreciates your writing, so by extent you, since I believe that writing reflects the soul, the person inside... If no one, except maybe your mother (hi mom!), reads your words, you are not a writer but a failure. To yourself, not the readers, who cares what they think ? But if you don't shine as bright as you want to, if you don't reach the level or goal you've set for yourself, you disappoint nobody but yourself. So there, good people, who I hope are still with me... hello ? Any one there ? Ok, just me I guess... Back to the point I'm desperately trying to make : My greatest fear is to give up on my dream, the one of the little twelve year old always inside me. I don't want to let her down. Ever. That, folks, is the reason I keep trying, doing my utmost best to write as well as I can. But another question bothers me. When do you become a writer ? Because you don't need a diploma to do it, or do you ? It's a liberal type of job. I have to check on internet, once I'm done with this. God, I'm shifting away from the subject... Sorry ! I'm back ! Promise. As I was saying, eh, blank, darn it. I could just press delete and erase the last few uninteresting phrases, that lead us nowhere but I hate throwing away anything I write, because I'm kind of throwing away a piece of myself. In some weird, twisted way of course, that only I probably think about. Oh ! I remember, I was going to ask when is the moment, when you reach the end of the road, it being a narrow alleyway or a long highway, and that it splits in half towards two different paths, one you will have to pave as you move forward, on with your life, the other already made in industrial gravel stone, nice but boring, that will make you either master of your dreams (ding-ding-ding-ding! We have a winner ! You are now the proud owner of the make-believe certificate permitting you to consider yourself a writer !) or just a “wanna be” who will never achieve what you want to achieve ? Who gets to tell you if you are a writer ? Heck, I'm writing right now ! So by extent, am I not a writer ? I am, aren't I ! Gosh, I'm skipping deep inside, with my twelve year old self, who's giving me a huge teddy bear hug, repeating “Oh, thank you, thank you ! You did it !”

This is where I leave you, dear readers, if you are even with me, for my journey is over. My dream has come true at last. I am and will always be a writer inside. It's what I'm meant to be. Some are born doctors, others lawyers, some to be teachers or maybe mothers and fathers. To each his own, as a wise man would say. I was born to write. What, I'm not sure yet, but I can work that part out later. Only one thing left to add, before I get on with “writing” my life. Never let anyone tell you that you're not good enough, not smart enough or not clever enough. Because you are the only judge, and most of the time you are the harshest with yourself. All you need to do is have faith in the talents you possess and let destiny keep you on the right track. But don't fear, everybody swerves off a little sometime or another. Ah, the beauty of life...