by Leslie Lindsay
So the other day, I was checking my phone for messages as I was at a stop-light. I know, I know…not the safest thing to do. I was alone, so as not to set a bad example to the little people in my life. And in my defense, it was a really long light. And I got a message from someone who doesn’t know me all that well, “You are a gifted writer,” it said (along with a few other things).
Now, I am not one to brag. In fact, I may be a member of the “self-deprecating humor club,” (SDHC). I don’t toot my own horn very often; wouldn’t want to come across as a narcissistic weirdo, right? So, I tend to downplay things I do well.
It may be that I am infact, a good writer (see, there I go again). Sure, I got good grades in English and my own parents said I was good at writing, but well–you know, that’s different.
But when my editor said I was a “gifted writer,” well–yahoo! It must be so. I suddenly got this deep, viscereal feeling that bubbled up and out of me and into the wide expanse of my minivan, “I AM A WRITER!” I actually said it–now, talk about tooting my horn.
It felt so good, it felt so wrong. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t want to be a horn-tooter. But I think it finally hit me, “I am a writer.” I am. And I suppose it is something I should be proud of.
We’re all given gifts and this just happens to be one of mine. Believe me, there are many things I received from the “gene fairies” that I aren’t so gift-able (my singing voice and my mathematical skills, to name a couple).
However, there are days that writing doesn’t always “work” for me, and there are days that I really don’t know what the heck I am doing, but hey–isn’t that all of us?
Anyway, I better get back to some revisions. Write on, Wednesday!