Most of the time, I figure, I’m in this alone. Nobody is beating down my door checking in on my word counts. The girls would prefer it if I’d just give up these writing shenanigans and get back to being Mommy Dinosaur. The house would get organized. I’d get more sleep. You know, if I weren’t writing.
Then last night at about ten o’clock I’m sitting in a pub with these women who are all but ready to put my keister in a sling if I don’t fill out the paper work and submit an application for a writing fellowship.
I mean, who do they think they are?
I drank my beer. I ate my fries.
I asked for this.
I’m a lucky Mommy Dinosaur.
I have sisters, and brothers, linked by ink instead of blood. They’re a hard lot and they don’t cotton to excuses. You’ll do this, they say, you have to.
And they’re right. I trust them because I know they know what it feels like not to write.
They know the euphoria of one beautiful word after another. They know that if I don’t, I’ll be one ugly Mommy Dinosaur.
Thank you to all my sisters and brothers looking over my shoulder and kicking my ass. Writers need writers as much as they need words.
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