robipace

I had an interesting chat with my oldest son, Martin, today.  He was helping me order some new business cards.  He had a little trouble with my dubbing myself a ‘writer’ because I have not been published.  This boy of mine is a smart guy.  He plans, studies, makes goals and then does everything he can to make them come true.  He is morally sound, loving, polite, generous, responsible, and loved by many people. He is full of humor and engages me in wonderful conversations, for which I am extremely grateful.  He completely burst my bubble!

  Just as my big head was swelling to a delightfully plump size, filling to the brim with a newfound confidence and riding a wave of satisfaction at having completed my first novel, he failed to agree that I could now claim to be a writer on these little pale green cards that will carry my name elegantly scripted across the front. 

We agreed that “aspiring writer” would be a more appropriate term, and we’re all about being appropriate.  No false advertising here!  I just hope I don’t have to throw out a bunch of these beautiful cards once a publisher does discover my hidden talent!  Seriously, what harm is there in projecting one’s dream onto a business card?  Don’t we see that type of overblown self-confidence thrust our way via  advertisements every day of our lives? 

I have written a mystery suspense novel…I’m a writer.  One day, a wastebasket full of cards saying otherwise just might prove my happy point! Until then, I remain politically correct.   Robianne Pace, Aspiring Writer

Today I sat down to write some notes to myself.  I jotted a few things down and then my pen quit working.  I ventured to the corner of the paper and made some circular colorless dents in the page.  I got up, fumed over to the trash bin, and tossed the useless thing in the trash!  Pens that don’t write are a major pet peeve of mine.  One false move and they  immediately have a new home with the stinky empty cat food containers in the bottom of my kitchen garbage can.

Today this little episode caused me to think about myself. Unlike that disappointing writing utensil, I’m full of ink… fluid thoughts fill every part of my mind and soul. The problem is that I tend to hoard them inside of myself because I am such an introvert.  I shy away from revealing all of my joy, pain, and enthusiasm merely because it takes more guts to do that than  I naturally possess. I’m ink without a pen, and that is about as useless as a pen without ink!  So, I am stepping out, and ‘fessing up: I’m a writer, a thinker, a midnight inker!