Crouched over my desk, a pile of loose-leaf papers covering it's surface, re-writing stories and poems, both those I wrote and those that were my favourites, I had grand aspirations that someday my name would be on the best-sellers list. Even though I was too afraid to let anyone read what I wrote, other than my grade 10 English writing teacher, I wanted to be a writer someday.
It was only yesterday, on my walk home from work that I realized that the title on my business cards is exactly that. I am a writer. Certainly not the type who will ever reach any kind of best-sellers list. Not even the type who gets their name published on what comes out of their pen, or keyboard keys. But I do get paid a living to write.
I know now that my skills aren't ones that would lead me to published works. That I would rather work in a publishing house editing the great works of others than write them myself.
Regardless, it's a good thing to have your young-girl dreams come true.
My Tell-Tale Heart
7 hours ago