I AM a Writer Damn It!

I stand fumbling with my drink and looking around the room. There is a sea of people and I obviously do not fit. They all seem to know one another in either a personal or professional setting. There are exaggerated hand gestures and lots of air kisses. I stand and observe. My back to the wall next to the sign that says “Women”. Then what I fear most happens. I hear “so are you famous”? I shift from one foot to other turn and look at the eager eyed woman next to me, “no, I’m nobody”. Then I kick myself. I am not a nobody. I am a somebody. I am just a somebody that no one in that room has ever heard of. “Oh, I was just wondering because I saw that man over there taking your picture” was the reply.

I take a deep breath and said “I am kind of a writer”. My brain immediately is into panic mode and I get that squishy feeling in my stomach because I just know someone is going to start singing “liar, liar pants on fire”. I listen but no one sings the song so I press on in explanation. Why I feel I must explain myself is a mystery to me but I do “I mean I write a blog”. The inquisitor gives a half smile, half smirk and says “oh I see. What kind of blog”. Again I take a deep breath, really I am not good at the self promotion thing. I don’t know what my problem is or why I feel so self conscious. “Oh, it is just stories and stuff. Really it’s pretty random.” She looks at me again with a bit of disgust this time and says “blogs are supposed to be about something”. Okay now I feel really inadequate and scramble in my brain to come up with a purpose for my blog. I come up empty handed. I have no purpose for my blog. I mean I’m not a mommy blogger, nor do I give technical advice. I don’t cook on my blog nor do I give bad photography advice. Heck I don’t even sew or decorate and forget me trying to tell you what the hottest latest fashion trend is. I swallow hard clear my throat and say “my blog is sort of like a Seinfeld episode, a whole lot about nothing.” I can tell she is done with the conversation and she has that how the heck do I get out of here look in her eyes. I decide to let her off the hook and excuse myself to the powder room.

I stand and look in the mirror and wonder why I didn’t stand up for myself. Why didn’t I say “I am a writer and I can be damn funny if I want to?” Is it because I write a blog or is it because I have not been published that I refuse to call myself a writer. Maybe the reason I haven’t been published is because I have never submitted anything. Maybe I haven’t been published because I would rather blog than write a book. I square my shoulders, lift up my chin and poke my tits out. I am steeled and ready to answer the difficult questions. I am ready to go out there and tell the world that I, Gladys, am a writer. I fluff my hair, check for lipstick on my teeth and totter out on my high heels.

I look around for the inquisitor and spot her across the room. I head her way when the security guy stops me and says “ma’am if you’re just a spectator you need to move on into the theater.” I tale a deep breath look that rent-a-cop in the eye and say “I am a writer. I won the KTLA contest for my story about my worst date.” Rent-a-cop sighs heavily and says “ma’am I don’t care if you wrote the bible. If you are not part of the production please go take your seat.” I stand firm and say “I am waiting right here. I won the KTLA contest and I’m waiting for someone from KTLA to come talk to me.” He shakes his head and then goes to harass some movie star’s parents.

I stand there looking for someone from the television station to recognize me. Not that they would, I mean honestly why would they. Why would they even know where to look. I mean they didn’t even say they would meet me there. I just guessed that since they advertised and promoted this thing for the last bazillion days that they would want to personally speak to the person whose story they chose to represent their station. I stood and waited and watched feeling very much like a very small fish in a very small pond. I check my crackberry for a message from the station’s representative only to find nothing. I wait and wonder did I make more of this than it is?

The lights begin to flash and it is time to enter the theater. This is when I realize I am a writer because I am already composing another story in my head.