The Writer in Me

My daughter is fascinated by the fact that I am a writer. Of course I've been a writer in one form or another for years, but she doesn't really realize that.

She thinks it is so glamorous that the things I write are sometimes in newspapers, magazines and the Internet. Of course she doesn't realize that anyone with a land line and a computer and fourteen bucks a month can publish their "work" on the Internet.

She thinks that being a writer must be fun and easy, mostly because it is fun and easy for her. Of course she doesn't realize the hours I spend sitting in front of a blank screen without a thought in my head. She doesn't understand the all-consuming need to narrate and scrutinize every experience in my mind to seek out potential writing topics. And of course she doesn't understand the agony of constant self-editing.

She thinks it would be super cool to be featured in some of her mom's writing. Of course she doesn't really know that I've been dissecting her life for the amusement of others for years. This can only lead to a lifetime of therapy. Some day she'll avoid telling me anything about her life for fear I'll turn it into a snappy little antidote.

It may be time to teach her the phrase, "Mom, this is off the record," because the things she says and does are irresistible sometimes.

Or maybe someday she'll have a best-selling book entitled, "All About My Wacky Mom", or "How to Survive Having a Dork for a Mother", or "Matricide in 12 Easy Steps".

She is as much of a writer as I ever was. And I find that fascinating.