Working it Out (with fear and trembling)

A long time ago, probably around the fourth grade, I started devouring books at an insatiable rate. I was growing up fast on a steady diet of Nancy Drew, Judy Blume and Trixie Belden.

Of course I wanted to be Nancy Drew, and even had fantasies of being an 80’s version of Mata Hari, but to me, what really seemed doable- and fun, and cool, and exciting- was to become a writer.

A long time ago, when I was a child, one of my teachers (or maybe it was my Dad) told me that I was a good writer. I can’t remember what I wrote to make them say that, but it really stuck with me. I milked that for years, and I actually believed I was a good writer.

I like to write. I like the process, the craft, and the outlet it gives me. I like re-reading stuff I wrote, stuff that ended up published, and old, forgotten stuff that I have found sandwiched between pages of a book or journal.

But I have to be honest with myself: Can I really call myself a writer? I have come to doubt what I was told.

To honestly say, “I am a writer,” I have to deliberately be a writer.

This blog is an attempt to change all that. This blog is an attempt to face my writing fears, to be brave (someone told me I was brave once, too, and I still believe it), and exercise my writing muscle, which has become flaccid over the years from non-use.

So, pardon me while I knock out the reps.

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Jersey girl by birth, sailor by marriage, wife & mother by grace.

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