It’s just a little hobby

I have trouble with the pitch. The short and sweet pitch of this whole endeavor.

When someone causally asks what it is that I do “for a living”, for nearly eight years I have been able to say that I homeschool my children.

Eyebrows go up, a quick glance at my children happens (to ensure they are not wild animals, I assume), and then either a congratulations for being so brave conversation begins or an awkward shuffle to other topics follows. I find these moments highly amusing.

Now however, I have started to be encouraged to prop up this new and untested title of “Published Author”. This is far from amusing.

I personally feel like it is a bit of an insult to those poor, crazy writers that have gone through the dog and pony show of getting an actual publisher. A publisher that has notes, deadlines, “suggestions”, opinions, and all of the other bits I declined.

I get why the show is important.

I am lucky. This “little hobby” is not the check that puts food on the table. It completely lifts that rabid feeling of succeed or die. That feeling makes a publishing company the safest pick. With their marketing money, network of people, tried and true processes - if you are trying to be on all of the best seller lists and get weird gold stamps on the front of your book - that is the way to go. Or so I’ve been told.

I am a published author because, with the help of my husband and family, I published a book.

Why I write is the other side of the question. The side that upon being asked, I suddenly feel my throat constrict - trapping my words before they can ever dream of getting out. It is being asked to share about the core of my person. Writing is my clearest memory, my constant companion, my childhood friend, my first education, my stability. While growing up, it was nearly a compulsion to write. Journaling the endless well of angst I had throughout school saved my life.

I can’t imagine not writing.

I was never against sharing my writings with the people in my life. I simply would rather they talk amongst themselves about the story. Knowing them and valuing their thoughts as immensely as I do, it is nearly coma-inducing to have a competent conversation about why I wrote whatever it is I wrote. I wrote it because I wanted to.

I’m being helped to understand that these conversations are unavoidable - to a certain extent. I was close to using a fake name and never telling anyone I have finally published a book. Close. I might always struggle with that moment, that decision. All of the reasons for hiding it from my real life will never change. That path would have greatly reduced my risk of a coma. But - I wrote what I wrote because I wanted to. Though it is out there, I still only have to talk about it as much as I want to talk about it. And there isn’t a thing anyone else can do about it. That lack of a publisher has its perks.

So, I’m working on a script.

Heads up if this ever comes into play later in life.

“Oh, you’re a writer! That’s so cool!”

“Thank you.” Smile. Smile.