Recently, in my travels across the World Wide Wunderbus, I came across a picture of myself. I generally hate pictures of me and usually react as such, but this time was different. The caption for said picture had my name, not moniker, and ‘author’ was the word of choice, not ‘webmaster’ or even ‘crazy, loud-mouthed short person.’ This hit something deep inside that I didn’t even know existed. I think it might have been ego, or its evil step-brother confidence—which, as of lately, has all but shrunk out of site, like a dying fairy that no one believes in or claps for. However, when I saw that caption, I felt the stirrings of something. I sat up a little taller in my chair. And I smiled. When my little love-fest was done, I emailed my pastor/instigator/part-time muse and told them. They smiled back, and said something about still getting used to being at the table themselves, and how they understood my happy reaction to the find…
Wait a minute. The table? I’ve heard of this thing. Much like life, this creative self-punishment we call writing comes with stages of growth and acceptance. The eventual goal is that fabled table. I’ve eavesdropped on people discussing the grownups’ table, and nearby kids’ table. Which table am I at? Hell, I have a T.V. tray! It’s cheap aluminum, with the scratched remains of a bad paisley print on it, but it’s got its perks—I get the cookies first, but the main course last. And it’s ok. I’m comfortable here. For now. I know my place and I do my chores, in hopes of getting promoted to the kids’ table.
This was the second event in just as many days that made me think I might be doing something right. The first was a surprise phone call from another instigator/part-time muse, demanding I pull out something I’d previously told them about. Under orders—and while there are few people that I take orders from, this would be one of the top two—I am to finish it ASAP and ship it to someone specific. I am?! This particular butt-kicker also likes to say things like, “I was talking to so-and-so about you…” You were?!
Here I was with my T.V. tray—sitting in the corner of the room, watching cartoons, and occasionally catching important bits of conversation during the commercials, and I had no idea that the dining hall was being redesigned. Apparently, my T.V. tray has been moved just a touch closer to the actual table, close enough to the kids’ table to steal their pickles when they’re not looking. That’s just a touch scary on some level, but the prospect of better cuisine has my attention. A little something to tell my dying fairy that the sale was a good thing, the decision was a solid one, and that I’m not crazy.
Well, ok, I might still be a little crazy, but the moral of the story was up there a few paragraphs: I know my place, I do the work, and the term eventually is not necessarily mythical…
Category: Writing
Kelli 04.27.08
