Come here, I have a confession to make.
I want to be a writer.
I remember once in undergrad, a fellow English major confidently told me that, unlike all our other clueless peers, when she completed her degree, she was going to write books. I, of course, inwardly sneered at her. People don't write books, I thought to myself. Writers write books.
So then, how does one go about making the leap from a mere person to a writer? I guess actually writing something is a good start. I've done that. But then... what?
I was advised at a writing conference I attended this weekend that if I really want to be a writer, I have to delve into that pesky and somewhat shameful business of self-promotion. This is a rather uncomfortable task. It means establishing an on-line presence - a chore that necessitates an absence somewhere else. Somewhere less virtual. What am I willing to give up in order to pursue this wild-eyed dream of mine? Time with my children? Sleep? My morning run?
I guess, at the very least, I am serious enough about this pursuit to risk losing my pride. To throw this small token into the pool of possibility, knowing I may end up looking like a fool. I suppose it is some comfort knowing I am not the first to blog about my very private thoughts and feelings. Others have done it before. As Will Farrell so aptly turned the phrase in Anchorman, "when in Rome."
So Brutus, pass the Caesar dressing. I'm ready to dig in...