Stories from a life in progress.


I've been full of nerves since last week, not that I could have told you about them.  Subterranean nerves, pretending that they aren't nervous at all.

I've been waiting to get final information from a company which hires freelance writers, and to start getting assignments from them.  Waiting very impatiently, for my part, which is one of the clues about the hidden, lurking nerves.  Rationally, I can accept the need for everything to get sorted.  Emotionally, I want everything to be FINISHED NOW, please.  I want to get working.  I want to make some money.

It's about money, and more than money.  More important things than money, though money matters and it will be a relief to have more of it available.  It's about acknowledgement.  It's about getting to be a writer.

It's so different, saying something about myself and having someone else say it about me.  I have only been able to say, even to myself, that maybe I am a writer?  Maybe I can do that?  But when someone else agrees, the whole thing becomes so very much more real.  I can even say it about myself now, where I struggled to before.  I'm a writer.  I write things; that's the work I do.  I'm a writer.

I'm still absorbing this change; I have very few sensible words to say about it.  But I can still say it.  I feel like I can actually say it tonight, and it is more true than it was before.  I'm a writer.  That's what I do.  People pay me for it and everything.

I'm still practicing saying it, it's such a novel feeling.  I'm a writer.  That's what I do.