Here I am. Seat 19F. American Airlines. A window seat.
I literally hoisted my million pound carryon bag into the overhead bin and then scrambled over a momma and her little girl to my seat. I had to snicker inside because of course I’d be sitting next to a wiggle worm. There’s no rest for the weary.
It’s better this way—I’m a momma who knows what it’s like to fly with children in tow, and it’s no laughing matter. For everyone involved, I guess. So, I’ll smile my friendly smile and try not to let on if I’m bothered.
There’s a reason I’m on this plane—I’m headed to the She Speaks 2016 conference in North Carolina. A conference for writers. Real writers. People who have published books. People who are meeting with publishers and agents and pitching their new book ideas. People who are speakers.
I signed up for it way back in February, and in a way it felt like it would never actually come. I felt safer when it was that way, when I could think of it as a way off, far in the future thing.
But here it is, and I’m on my way.
I actually have to grab some sort of ride like Uber to my hotel and everything, that’s how much of a big girl I am
pretending to be now.
I thought about what I would say if someone on the plane asked me where I was going and why. Would I say, “I’m going to a writer’s conference, because I’m a writer.”
Or would I just say, “I’m headed to a conference.”
Because it’s a big deal whether or not I claim to be a writer. I feel so sheepish when I admit it to people. Seriously, I get all embarrassingly bashful, it’s ridiculous.
I am a writer though, right? I write. So I’m a writer. I used to think you could only say that if you had something published by a professional publisher. And I still sort of think that, but I’m dabbling in claiming that I’m a writer and I can say it like it is.
Truth is, I’m a mom and a wife first. Those are my 100% full time jobs. I can’t ever remove those hats. And the truth is, I’m not looking for another job. Heck, I don’t want another job, that is hard enough.
But writing? I love it. It doesn’t feel like work (most of the time, not including the excruciating details and logistics). I’m always writing, even if my fingers aren’t pounding out words on a keyboard. There are always words flooding my mind, I almost can’t turn it off.
In a way, I’m a writer of the story of my life. I see lessons, parallels, analogies, popping up all the time in the normal, everyday stories of my life.
Heck, I can draw analogies from a broken thrift store cup.
Life is full of lessons, and most often the words floating through my mind seem to be what God uses to show me what He’s doing, what He’s up to in the specifics of my life, and why all the little things matter.
In so many ways I think the stories I live match many of the stories you guys live—we are all normal. We just are. We live normal lives. Your normal might not be exactly like my normal, but I think at our core we can understand each other.
And when God shines a light on something I’m doing or living, I love to share it with you because I think maybe you can relate too.
So here I am, stuck in the middle of a plane with a little girl using up more than her fair share of her seat, and I’m acknowledging that I’m a writer.
It doesn’t make me any money, in fact my husband can testify that it costs a boat load.
But it’s become a source of encouragement for my soul, and I know for many of you who have been my faithful readers for so many years it’s been encouraging to you (I hope).
Taking this next step is a new journey for me, and I nervously look forward to it with hopeful expectation.