Turned out to be something deeper than I thought. I've used both words to describe myself. When writer/author friends started questioning whether they should use one or the other, I thought 'Oh settle down -- you wrote a book right? You're both.'  

But last month -- in the midst of my Julia Cameron Walking in this World journey (yes, in the midst of morning pages) -- I saw that absolutely I want to be "a writer." I don't want to be "an author." Well, I think of an author as someone who has written and published a book, and yes, I DO want that. Believe me, the fact that I have published encourages me enormously. It makes me think I maybe could do it again.

But I want to live as a writer -- meaning I want to be someone who writes. I want to be the person you go to when you need some words written. It means I spend my time writing. What does an author do? Be "authorial?" Is that even a word? People, I don't want a title -- I want to write.  

Additionally, doesn't being "an author" mean you HAVE published? Past tense? Passive voice? That's got to be every writers nightmare. I want to be alive and kicking, thank you very much.  

As for a description of what I do, I'm not looking for anything fancy. Something that describes the work would do it. Chagall said he worked like a cobbler. Good gravy, if that's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

How would I like for readers to respond to me? This is what comes to mind: I've decided I want to be the tinker that comes down the road with my verbs, nouns, prepositions clanking against the sides of the cart. Hearing me, maybe you'll take off your apron, come out onto the road and say, "What have you got for me today?"  

I do not want to appear to be frightening you with my letters. For they say, "His letters are weighty and strong, but his bodily presence is weak and his speech is of no account." (10:9...)

Oh yeah, I'm with you! The best thing I do is write. That's it. Then someone invites me to speak and I know they've already had the best of me because they've read my writing. Believe me, I've shown all my cards. It's a little disconcerting. I'm not astonishingly beautiful or particularly eloquent. "Bodily presence weak?" Yeah, I can see it said of me. Still, I go and enjoy it. I like meeting readers. I feel grateful that someone asked. So I do my best to speak, even though there's a reason why I write and rewrite and rewrite (and why I prefer email to phone calls).  

Paul goes on:

Let such a person understand that what we say by letter when absent, we do when present.

Now that's deep. I'd like that to be true of me too. 

If the book is good, is about something that you know, and is truly written, and reading it over you see that this is so, you can let the boys yip and the noise will have that pleasant sound coyotes make on a very cold night when they are out in the snow and you are in your own cabin that you have built or paid for with your work. 

-- Ernest Hemingway, as quoted in Julia Cameron, Walking in this World.

So here's what Lake Geneva, Wisconsin looked like in April.

One of the things I love about Lake Geneva is that there's a path that runs all the way around the lake. Residents are required by law to allow walkers to trod directly in front of their fancy, fancy homes and cabins. Usually they put down some bricks or pavers to let you know where to walk. But I kid you not, these people wake up, shuffle out to their kitchens, pick up their cups of coffee, turn to gaze out at the lake through big breakfast nook windows and see . . .ME. It's 6 a.m and I'm hiking across their front yard, orange bag full of a book and a journal, sleepily heading toward the coffee shop. I don't know how the home owners feel about that, but I got to tell you I loved being able to walk that close to the water. And I suppose the home owners get to walk in front of everyone else's house. That just might make up for it. 

I believe it's 20 plus miles if you walk all the way around -- and I definitely want to walk it at least once in my life. I wish there were more places in the U.S. that allowed walkers right-of-way. It's so lovely. 

This is from an essay called "A Rejected Submission to NPR's 'This I Believe:"

Which is why I believe the phrase "the writing life" should not exist. I don't know who came up with this treacly trope, so redolent of cats on the lap and tea steaming in the mug. So evocative of gazing out the window thinking writerly thoughts, such as "What is the meaning of life?" or "Now that Inspector Bunchybottoms has discovered the meat cleaver behind the potted palm, whatever shall she do next?" or "My butt is sore. I want a sandwich." Writing, however, is not life. It's not even very much fun. It's like standing in a dark cave with an entire colony of Mexican fruit bats and trying to catch them with a butterfly net. They're zooming here and swooping there; they're smacking you with their wings. They're getting tangled in your hair, they probably have rabies, and they want to suck your blood, but you just keep swinging the net over and over and over, and yet the net remains empty. If, wonder of wonders, you do catch a bat, you will bask blissfully in the knowledge that you have netted the most perfect specimen of Chiroptera ever known. You'll bask for exactly five minutes. Then you'll start worrying that you'll have no one to admire your bat, your perfect, perfect bat. Or, if you do, that people will think it's a sucky bat, or that it should have been bigger, or furrier. Or that Jonathan Franzen's bat was better, even though you know your bat was every bit as squeaky and fuzzy and crinkly-nosed as any other bat. So then you realize that world just isn't fair. But then you realize your bat does, in fact, suck. Then you realize your bat is actually a fine, fine bat but the problem is that the world doesn't actually need any more bats, so maybe you should just put down the net and take up needlepoint. Of course, if there's anything worse than a writer preening about writing, it's a writer bitching about writing, which is why I believe writers really just shouldn't talk at all.

Now go read the rest of this essay in McSweeny's.  You know you want to.