I’d never thought of myself as a writer. I’d written essays and research papers and done well. I’d churned out high school journalism copy for yearbooks or newspaper articles. I’d written in my journal for years and years. But a writer? I didn’t claim the title. Not yet.
Then, four years ago, I started a blog. I wanted to tell stories, to relate to others with similar lives. At first, it wasn’t really about the writing.
But then people said, “You’re good at this.”
Good at blogging, perhaps. But good at writing?
“Good at writing,” people said.
And so I took a Creative Writing class. And fell in love.
Fourteen months ago, I submitted my first manuscript to a publishing company and started hoping for a yes.
Yesterday, the yes came.
My name, on the front of a book. A book sold in bookstores. A book that people not related to me will read. I’m excited, humbled, amazed, grateful. And happy. So very happy.
(And to think people say nothing good comes from blogging…)