I am a writer. A writer is a person who writes books; I do this thing called writing.  I have written twenty-six books, across all genres: poetry, short stories, essays, novels, and children’s books. I have edited anthologies and been published in journals far and near, wide and far. Yet many people do not understand the life of a writer. Sometimes, I’m not sure I do either. I often ask myself, why do I keep writing when my books are not selling?

The data says a writer must sell at least 40,000 books yearly to live off their craft. I have not despite twenty-six books. Still, I am a writer. I am committed to telling the stories that come to me, to portraying the people I know and never met, the histories I inherit, the worlds I imagine. But I am tired—tired of being praised but not purchased, loved but not taught, read but not reviewed. I’m not complaining; I’m simply stating the truth: I am a writer, and I write.

I didn’t begin for money, prestige, or awards, but now, I want them too. I write to reinsert myself and my people into the story: a people enslaved, colonized, silenced, erased. I write about the limestone of Jamaica, about the Taino, the first people, and the Europeans tried to take everything but couldn’t take it all. We kept more than they knew, our language, our songs, our memory.

So yes, I am a writer. I need readers to read, teachers to teach, critics to review, and buyers to buy. Read my books. Gift them. Teach them. Keep the story alive. I am fighting to keep writing.