A Real Live Writer

I started the month of September with meeting a real live author.  As in an "I've-sold-17-million-books" author, Diana Gabaldon.

I ended September with meeting a real live war hero.  As in an "I-am-finally-writing-my-memoirs-and-want-you-to-help-me" hero, Chuck.

And I think the primary reason I am able to help Chuck write (and to finally make my own book a reality) is something Diana said at lunch that day:  "I always knew I had a book in me."

So did I.  But I was always afraid to say it out loud.

Last week I went looking for my college transcript.  I didn't find it, but in the middle of my search, in the middle of my closet, in the middle of a box full of stuff from grad school, I found a book I had started writing way back when.  Like 1983.  And you know what?  It's not awful.  Kind of a Jodi Picoult-ish story, full of angst and tensiosity (it's a family word).  Although I'm not too interested in re-visiting that story, it gives me another reason to keep writing -- if I did it once, I can certainly do it again.  Plus, I'm a lot smarter than I was when I was 24, thank goodness.

I am also not as afraid of rejection as I was when I was 24.  My writing was rejected a lot back then, and it did take the wind right out of my sails.  (Perhaps it was because I used too many cliches. !)

Maybe all this blogging has also given me a boost.  Although I don't have a lot of followers, I know several people who actually look forward to my next post.

And maybe it's that my friends are standing behind me, giving me a firm push.  Last January, at her dad's funeral my college BFF Ann introduced me as her friend "the writer."  It shocked me a bit, because I didn't think I had mentioned my current ambitions to her.  I had, however, helped her through English 101 and 102, written her a short story as a Christmas gift one year, and written a song for her wedding.  I guess that qualifies.

Last Christmas, my pal Joannie gave me a journal for writers.

I think my friends are expecting big things from me.  And you know how I hate to let my friends down.

So, it's time to throw off my namby-pamby attitude about my skills and hang out my writing shingle.  (And quit using idiomatic expressions.)

I am a writer.

In that box in my closet I also found my thesis prospectus, all my notes and thesis research, a pretty boring but mostly well-written (did I just say that again?) 20-page linguistic analysis of politeness in Jane Austen novels, and a peer review of another grad assistant named James.  It's a pretty stellar review, and I wish I could remember James, because according to me, he sounds like a heck of a guy.  I think I will google him, or look him up on facebook.

But I might wait until we get Chuck's book published, so I can tell James that I am a Real Live Writer.

Peace.