So, I’m at a local tire shop this morning getting new tires put on my car when the guy asks me what I do for a living. I hate that question because, to be honest, I don’t really do anything.
I mean, I write. I can’t avoid that. Look at all my books, audiobooks, etc. etc. etc. Yes, I write. But I hate admitting it.
Even when I said it, I mumbled it a little, as if I was on the fucking sex offender list or something! “I’m a (pause) writer.”
What the fuck is that?
I don’t really like talking about being a writer because, honestly, I don’t make a whole lot of money doing it. Right now, my career is still in its infancy in a way. I’m building an audience. I’m not a big-time writer.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not a writer… right? (Sure - easy to say after I just wrote an entire paragraph of qualifiers...)
I try to remind myself of that but then I am hit by all the years of having people tell me I shouldn’t think too highly of myself. From childhood until early adulthood – you know, the formative years – I had people tell me I wasn’t that great, from my best friends in high school (or so I thought) all the way on up to my own mother. And, yes, this had an effect. Vicky gets so irritated about how I shy away from any kind of attention – it’s a pain in the ass!
I should be soaking it up. Reveling in it. But every time I come face to face with who I am, I am positively embarrassed. Hell, even if I was a big-time writer, I'd still be embarrassed because of what the above-mentioned folks used to refer to as being "full of myself." There's just no winning!
I know that’s the wrong way to live.
I’m working on it. Honestly.