If I tell people I am a writer, and don't clarify immediately, they often ask, "What kind of a writer are you?" A simple question to them, no doubt. Nothing more than ascertaining if I write newspaper articles about growing the best mums or dense contemporary fiction that few read but many have on their coffee tables. I answer different ways depending on who is asking and in what circumstance. (I'm not likely to belabor my horror writing to the parents of my Sunday School preschoolers.)
I write words. Often, I write them into sentences, paragraphs, stories or novels. Sometimes they rhyme. On occasion, they are in Spanish, but usually in English.
I write about people and ideas and situations. A good many of those situations are fantastical, either because of the large numbers of scientifically unlikely zombies or the merely implausible troll-dragon friendships. A few are all too plausible tales of hardship and woe, laughter and joy, loss and abandonment.
I write for myself. I write for an audience. I write to make a point, or counter one. I write to make people laugh and think and cry, and sometimes even to inspire them to turn the lights off for a bit of a snuggle with a loved one.
I write with passion. I struggle for each word when I am not gushing forth faster than my computer can absorb the words. Coffee and chocolate are my close companions, but my friends are spread across the world via Twitter and Facebook and blogs and fora.
What kind of a writer are you?