Last night, I went to my 25-year High School Reunion. Wow! What an amazing experience. It was my first. I didn’t go to my 10-year or my 20. But I’m so glad I went this time. Seeing so many old friends was truly wonderful.
The event couldn’t have been better. The weather was beautiful, warm but not hot. The venue was nicely landscaped with lots of shade, plenty of seating, and the people were.. well the people were fantastic!
Catching up with my old classmates after twenty-five years was a blast, until inevitably the question was turned back on me: “So, what are you doing these days?” Now, many of my classmates know my story from Facebook or from seeing an article in our local paper. But there are many who do not.
If you don’t know: I suffered a stroke in 2008 caused by a brain aneurysm, which jacked me up really good for a while. I no longer work and can no longer drive. It was after the stroke that I started writing.
“So, what do you do?” And for some reason, no matter how many times I was asked, I was never prepared for the question!
“Well, uh. I, uh.” I dallied about, “Not much. I stay at home with my son over the summer, and…” Finally I just said it:
I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to call myself a writer. Maybe it’s because I haven’t yet gotten that ever-elusive Big Publisher contract. I self-publish. Maybe it’s because the books I’ve written are “kid’s books” and will never be considered high-brow literature on anyone’s list. Or maybe it’s just my own self-doubt that tells me that if I call myself a writer, then I’ll be judged as such, and that frightens me.
Whatever the reason, I need to get over it.