How romantic would it be to call myself a writer? It seems so much more supple an answer than ‘a mom’ or ‘a student’ or ‘a freeloading wise ass’. ‘Oh, I’m a writer’, said nonchalantly even though my insides would be fluttering about wildly as the words left my lips.
I’m a very pessimistic person, and I don’t think that my writing is that good. Sometimes, I write something that I’m proud of here on this blog, and someone says I’m a great writer in the comments and my heart swells, but then I read another blog, an entry that to me is not very good, and the people in the comments are fawning over how wonderful of a writer that person is and it knocks me back down into reality. The reality that I’m mediocre at best, because sometimes, when it’s evident that you’re attempting to write well, people somehow feel obligated to tell you that you did. So, I take hearing it with a grain of salt.
But sometimes, I believe it. Like when Maggie tells me. Oh, my, how I love my Maggie. To me, there is not another blogger in existence that writes like she does. She has the most amazing talent that I have ever seen here in this grand ol’ blogosphere and she awes me. I’ve actually cried reading her posts before, and it wasn’t because it was a sad one – it was because it was so, so very excellent. I felt privileged to have read it. My heart broke when she quit, and leaped when she changed her mind and returned.
Maggie told me that I should stop blogging my Dance, Dance posts and start writing them. Drafting a book proposal. I argued with her, but she told me she believed in me. She believed it was marketable, and she believed in my talent. I told her, truthfully, that if she had been any one else to suggest it, that I would have waved off the notion completely. But because it was her, I considered it. I told her that if I was to ever be lucky enough to get a book deal that I’d dedicate the book to her. I’ve been considering her suggestion for a few days now, wavering between yes and no.