Am I a Writer

I am sitting here at four in the morning. The rains battering the window. I've got my notebook out, thinking. The light is dim. Any brighter surely wouldn't be proper. Hell, I've even got my raven statue. What a prick I am, trying to force this ****. I like to write and to read, but am I not simply trying to flee from the fact? The fact that the big 'ol world is here now. And its staring me down. Waiting for me to make my move. Some part of me thinks that if I become a writer, then I surely can continue to live with such ignorant ambivalence of adult life. Am I a writer? I couldn't tell you. I can only write about it.