Sometimes, I sit down to write and the words and ideas are really flowing. It’s all my fingers can do to keep up with the story that’s telling itself on the page. At those times, I think, “Heck yeah! Look at me! I’m a writer!” I am unstoppable.
My inner voice? That darn Shirley decides to jump into my thoughts and she starts pecking away at my writing self-esteem. At my motivation. I think she actually eats some of my ideas. And I’m pretty sure she’s bipolar. Because one day/hour/minute I am full of confidence and certain it’s only a matter of time before I’ll find an agent, and the next day/hour/minute, I think my 5th graders are more likely to get published.
Last night, my husband heard me talking in my not-so-cheerful voice. “What’s wrong? Think your writing sucks again?” (Apparently he and Shirley email.) He proceeded to tell me all about how wonderful I am and how amazing my writing is, and how he is the luckiest man to be enamored with such an outstanding woman (or at least, I’m sure he was thinking that last part). I read him an excerpt from my middle grade novel, (tentatively) titled Team: The Merryweather File. And guess what? Something amazing occurred.
Shirley shut up! She listened to the story. And I think I even heard an accolade or two. And all it took was a supportive husband and a teacher’s read-aloud voice (provided by yours truly).