Turning myself inside out...

I was riding my bike this evening, spending time with my first love, my Florida. I miss writing camp. I miss my house in Colorado. I miss my new friends. I miss the freedom of it. But, God, it's good to be back with my Florida. As I was riding, hands stretched out, Herbie Hancock on my iPod, jasmine in the air, I thought about something my friend said. One word actually that kept echoing in my mind- courage. He was using it in reference to me. I thought back to a year or so ago when I would've never placed that word in any sentence- or even paragraph- that had dewin in it. But somewhere along the road, I took that word and became it. I took what I envied in others, and instead of resenting them, turned myself into them.

I was talking to my friend during our hike about how I, if not all of us, tend to paint people into these mythical beings sometimes. It's like when I obsessed over Gwen Stefani for years (ok, so I still do), then I met her and marveled at the fact that she was so tiny. It's like with writers. Somehow I imagined they were these sparkly people who had some magic way of spinning webs out of words that was hidden from daylight. Turns out they just sit at their laptops, just as I'm doing now. I wondered why I make up these characters in my head. Is it to keep myself distanced from them, so that I don't dare try to be like them, lest I fail? Or is it my way of assigning such height to have something to long for, a type of goal to strive for? Or is it because what these people do to me is an inexplicable, unimaginable miracle? They move me in ways I can't see, and can, therefore, not explain.

I don't know, but one thing I learned this past week is that not only are editors and agents not scary, writers are not magical floating beings who inspire literary excellence by simply tinkling their noses. They are me, and I am them.


Here is the momma fox.