I am an author.

And so are you. And we are different in a hundred ways, but the same in the way that counts: we’ve decided to celebrate the act of putting words before a reader.

I am an author.

And so are you. I craft worlds and create characters, and wax with passion about topics of interest to me.

You might be an outcast among your peers. Or you might be a luminary in your field.

You might write stuff the schools and libraries blacklist. Or you might write stuff the local church reading groups share with enthusiasm.

Your writing might get your parents to praise you. Your writing might get them to disown you.

You might write to escape the world. You might write to embrace it.

Your writing might even be just for you, forever tucked away from the eyes of mankind.

But you still wrote.

I am an author.

And so are you. Maybe you picked up the craft when you were 10, or when you were 90.

Maybe your friends support you. Or maybe they roll their eyes.

Maybe your family are all lit nerds. Or maybe they’d rather be outside.

Maybe they write, too. Or maybe they just don’t understand.

But that’s OK, because you understand.

I am an author.

And so are you. One positive comment can make our day, and one thoughtful piece of criticism can help hone our craft. But ten billion negative voices can never stop it.

We’re so far gone from letting negative feedback stop us that it might as well exist on Venus. And we’re long past Alpha Centauri.

I am an author.

And so are you. We might sell a dozen copies of our books. Or a hundred. Or a hundred thousand. Or more.

Or we might sell ten. Or we might give it away.

And none of this matters. Numbers don’t define what I am, and they don’t define what you are.

I am an author.

And so are you. I not only wear my scars, I roll my sleeves back and let you see more of them. And I want to see yours.

Maybe you reflect on your mistakes. Maybe you ignore them. Maybe you let them define you. But our scars will always be visible on the pale skin of the upturned page.

I say to hell with plastic surgery.

I am an author.

And so are you. My characters are before you, each an element of everything I have ever been, done, said, or experienced. And through your act of reading my elements meet yours.

Your elements might flee from mine. Or our elements might fuse. Either way, you had a reaction. Explosive.

I am an author.

And so are you. And no amount of rejection or disappointment will ever make us give up.

We couldn’t stop writing if we wanted to. And we don’t want to. And sometimes, when we actually believe we really want to stop, we realize what a lie that would be.

A punch in the gut just makes us hungrier. A kick in the butt just makes us run faster, and harder. It makes the heart pump, pump, pump.

You feel that pulse?

I am an author.

And so are you. You might break every grammatical rule there is, and revel in it. Or you might obsess over the serial comma.

You might rise in the morning before everyone else just to have quiet time with your laptop. Or you may be a night owl, looking up from your monitor at the sunrise, blinking back sleep as you realize you pulled an all-nighter.

You might write on your lunch. You might write at 40,000 feet. You might write in your basement to Tool. Or to Bob Marley while you sit on a beach blanket.

Maybe you write to absolutely nothing at all, because you can’t concentrate. Or maybe you write with your kids playing in the background, and your spouse redoing the tile in the bathroom.

Sometimes you grit your teeth. Sometimes you can’t focus. Sometimes you think fate has it in for your book.

But sometimes — those perfect times — you just can’t believe how well it’s going. And you thrive.

I am an author.

And so are you. And don’t you ever let anyone — or anything — convince you otherwise.

It’s Friday, and it’s time to write. Get PUMPED.

Stay tuned.