I am a writer.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.
A peek into my internal monologue this morning.
I would be having that get-to-know-you conversation before lunch, and I had just a few hours to prepare.
First, it must be known that I am not good with the get-to-know-you conversation. Once we’re friends, the conversation is non-stop. But the small-talk, the “so, what do you do?” questions, that’s where I stall. And I was determined not to stall.
She was going to ask THE QUESTION. And I was ready.
So, I left the house and headed for the appointment.
Things were going well.
Feeling good.
Then, the moment came.
What I should have said:
What I actually said:
But, then, I went back and corrected myself, proudly claiming the title of “Writer.” Right?
RIGHT?
WRONG!
What the heck?
Why is it so hard to say those four little words? I am a writer.
Maybe it’s my shy/self-deprecating/introvert personality. Maybe it’s the nature of artists in general. We tend to divide into two camps: those who shout our art from the rooftops, and those who toil away under the cover of night, hoarding our art like the one ring. And I’m definitely not a shouter by nature.
I think, when the moment came, I expected this reaction:
When, in all honesty, THIS was probably far more likely:
I thought it would get easier once I had a published book to point to.
So, here I am. Kicking myself in the bottom for not owning it. And wondering when I will.
