What I want to be when I grow up...

I’m only beginning to think of myself as a writer. 

I’ve always written – for work, for fun, for my sanity. But up until now – when total strangers review my writing and pronounce it good – do I feel almost like a real writer. (I still worry that someone will find me out and expose the fact that I’m really an average, annoying mom-type who has way too many animals and drinks way too much wine.) 

Plus, I have this amateurish habit of starting sentences with a conjunction, know frighteningly little about grammar (I couldn’t even tell you what a predicate is), and took only two English classes in college (the two that were required).

Yet, (see?) here I am expecting people to pay money for my writing. Crazy.

Still, I have to wonder if everyone doesn’t feel this way. Masked insecurity seems to be a common human trait. Very few of us feel “good enough.” And the ones that do tend to come off very Donald Trumpish.

Where am I going with this little essay? 

Good question. If I was a real writer, I would know. But since I’m only a pretend writer, I’ll just say that right now, in my life, I feel incredibly blessed. And grateful. And I promise to stop using so many conjunctions to start sentences. Maybe.