When I was a little girl, I always thought I would be an artist when I grew up. Or a writer. Maybe both. This was the picture I drew of my future self, painting in my pyjamas.
Years later I still do paint in my pyjamas, and write, and draw with pens or scissors.
I’ve written words that a lot of people have read, and even made money from writing, and they do say that if you write, then you’re a writer.
But “artist” is a word I find difficult, perhaps because it sounds grown up and serious in a way that doesn’t sit well; it makes me feel shy to call myself one and I would rather call myself something nearer to the child in this picture: someone who makes art sometimes and writes sometimes but doesn’t necessarily identify with a label. Let’s just call it being creative.