A man asked me, “Are you a writer?” To which I replied, “I sing; does that make me a singer? I run; does that make me a runner? I swim; does that make me a swimmer? I drum; does that make me a drummer?
“Is a woman with a child a mother? Is a man with a family a father? Is the man at the pulpit a preacher? Is the man on the street corner less so? Is either a believer? Is a man who sleeps with a hundred women a player? Is a woman who sleeps with a hundred men something else? Do we call a man who tries once and succeeds a success? Do we call a man who fails a hundred times a failure?
“I write; does that make me a writer?” “I don’t know,” he replied. To which I said, “Yes. And no. But I don’t worry about what to call myself, or what others call me; I just do as I like and like what I do.”