I am a writer. Those three words set out my stall. They define who I am. When I meet people these days since starting as a writer last week, I tell them who I am.

I have pride in my profession. I walk tall. I stand pensively looking at the scenes around, hoping for inspiration. I look at trees and such. Maybe young ladies. Old ones too, if they are not too shabby.

If someone were to ask me, “What are you?” I would stop and say, “I am a writer.”

People don’t often ask me. It’s a pity. They would be enriched by having met a real writer. They would go home and say to their partner, “You’ll never guess what,” and their partner would say, “What, dear? What is this delightful anecdote you are about to share?” And they would tell them.

I am so proud of being a writer I need to share it with the world. That’s why I decided to look the part. If you look the part, you can act the part and then become the part to be the part. It is a snappy writing expression that another proper writer once told me.

I already live the writer’s life. I have no money, and my dwelling abode (that’s how writers talk) is in an area pre-gentrification. Up and coming. Scope for improvement.

There are a lot of charity shops in the area. Good for nicking stuff from. Mostly old ladies volunteer in the shops, and they can’t run very fast. If you’re broke, that’s not a crime. It’s called redistribution.

If I were a rapper, I could make up a song using that word “redistribution.” But I’m not.

I got my new writing jacket yesterday. It fills me with pride. I put it on, and I am instantly 100% better than before. That’s what clothes can do. They maketh the man.

With the corduroy trousers and my pipe, I think people are quietly impressed. The jacket is on the large side, but that’s handy for borrowing goods from shops without CCTV.

​I will leave you now with six words that mean a lot to me:
For I am a writer.