I met with my writers group today and the subject of publishing came up. It always does. A local Kansas City writer who had just filed for bankruptcy, landed a three book deal and publishers were falling all over themselves to meet her and get her signed. She hit the writing lottery.
Please, God, tell me how that happens?
Or a writer does a piece on how the mom is never in the picture and it explodes across the internet, makes the national news and everybody is talking about it.
I have boxes of photos that verify my children came from storks because I’m nowhere to be found.
Whenever the subject of this blog comes up, I am very self deprecating. It’s just a little thing I do for fun, I’ll say. And if someone asks what I write about or have I been published my voice gets even smaller and I say, “No, never. And I kinda just write observations of life.” Wow. What a ringing endorsement of my own work.
I have trouble tooting my own horn. I’m more than happy to have somebody do it for me, but me selling the goods? Not so much.
Yet next to Mark and the kids, it is the most important thing to me. I often wake up during the night and think of things to write. Whenever I’m driving I think of writing. I compose sentences in my head all day at work. I read other people’s stuff and sigh that heavy breath of deep respect and wish that I could write that well.
A few years ago I met a woman at a Christmas party and instantly liked her. Every year I’d see her at that same party and we’d chat like we’d known each other since our kids were in preschool. I often thought of calling her for coffee but I heard she was a writer and I was too intimidated. Now she’s moved across the country and we message back and forth on Facebook and a kindred spirit was right in my backyard.
This morning when we met I was nursing a crappy night’s sleep hangover. My head was pounding. We were on our last clean towel and every bra I owned was in the washing machine. I had nothing to offer as far as written work. It is my life these days……..phoning everything in. In the midst of my Pity Party of One, Martha said to me, “I’ve loved what you’ve been writing lately. You’re on fire.”
You do? Really??? Oh. Oh. Thank you. Thank you for saying that cuz I don’t know lately.
Or ever.
Comparison is the thief of joy. As off kilter as the day started, joy definitely came into play.