Sometime ago someone I barely knew asked me what I did for a living, and I replied that I was a writer.

She looked sceptical and informed me that I couldn’t call myself a writer unless I’d been published. She then pointedly asked me if I was, indeed, published.

Instead of chastising her for her rudeness, I told her that a writer is someone who can’t help writing, and that I was a writer who was waiting on the sidelines. In the privacy of my head a voice said, ‘ONE DAY.’

Yes, one day. But until then I’m a writer. Listen, nameless self-important puffed-up know-it-all-but-know-nothing, I am whatever I think I am. Okay? If I think I’m a pink elephant, I’m a pink elephant. If I think I’m the chief of a far-flung Amazon warrior tribe, then that’s what I am. You play a fantasy game online and pretend you’re an Elven princess. Well, I’m not pretending to be anything.

I bloody well AM a writer. So put _that_ on your needles and knit it.