“What do you write?”
You know the question. Someone at a gathering mentions to someone else that you’re a writer and the invariable question comes. Oh, we love this question, don’t we? It’s a chance to share, perhaps with a modicum of modesty, that we write fiction or poetry or essays . . . And yet, there’s a guilty feeling inside. Am I really a writer? I have sixteen stories that have never seen the light beyond my room. Fifty two poems. A drawer full of rejection letters. The question depresses us. We feel inadequate and go home later either vowing to write better or maybe thinking we’ll give up on this business about being a writer. No more questions, no more inadequacy.
But you don’t give up, you just drag yourself to the writer’s whipping post and pluck halfheartedly at the vision of your story. All because you…
View original post 772 more words