Oh, you're a Writer?

Dear M,

Admit it. We all like it when someone asks, Oh, you're a writer? or I heard you've published a book?
And very often the sole reason why we desperately want to be published is to hear the many forms of that question. (Until we reach a stage where, if someone asks Have you published any books? we're going to be very, very offended indeed. Oh, that's a nice dream, isn't it.)

We do not want to be the ones asking those questions. We want to be the ones nodding modestly or arrogantly, Yes. We want to be the ones shrugging and dismissing it with a wave of our hand because we're afraid if we open our mouth, our pride will start falling out.

My Book. My Name. The Author.
There's no denying the charm of those words. The motivation. The drive behind that dream. The well-justified pride that could spill out.

The critics, the unimpressed readers, the creatures who think you're too pretentious, they don't matter. Nothing matters, when you hold that damn book in your hands.

When nothing else works, dream this dream.

Love.

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