I haven't been very social lately,
no long phone calls with my long distance parents, no running about with friends or following my
favorite blogs, and hardly any facebooking,
(people are actually getting concerned about that one)
But it's nothing to worry about, really,
I've been writing. I'm almost to the end of my third novel,
and I haven't been able to think of anything else.
At this point anyone reading this is saying, What? You're a writer?
and thinking, uh... no. I don't think so.
And here's the thing...
I would answer, no, no, no, I am not a writer - I simply write.
Yes, I have written three novels, but I've never actually published anything, so...
therefor... I am not a writer.
But then I look over at my windowsill where this little driftwood tree sits.
It was made by my husband's Aunt.
She started with a bunch of loose black wires and twisted them together, forming a trunk,
and separated them as she went up to individual branches and twigs.
We also have a couple of sculptures she made and some oil paintings.
I don't actually have them displayed in my house,
(horrible wife that I am)
because, well, they are not really my taste.
But the point here is, Aunt Sondra was an artist.
She never sold anything she created,
she did it for the joy of it,
but everyone knew her as Sondra, the artist.
Is that all it takes? Perhaps.
I know people dubbed gardeners and fishermen who aren't exactly making a living at it,
but do it avidly.
I cook everyday, yet no one would call me a cook.
I am a mother, that's a give in, a volunteer at my children's school,
I am a wife, a friend, and even a flirt,
(or so I've been told)
But a writer? No. Somehow that takes a certain level of professionalism,
a piece of paper or a certificate stating my authenticity,
or maybe even a paycheck.
Perhaps Aunt Sondra was an artist,
just maybe her authenticity came out of the respect of those who loved her.
But, me? I think, for now, anyway,
I'm just me.