I rushed into the grocery store. It was 9:30pm. Not my usual shopping time. I needed to grab a few things for the picnic the following evening. There would be no time the next day. I had a mental note of the items: cilantro, grapes, limes and feta cheese.I was six steps into the store and two steps past the magazine. I stopped. Took two steps back and lifted it off the rack. It was one among many. I flipped through the magazine. There it was - my little piece in print. Not much at all, four sentences I whipped together one morning. It was doubly delightful to read my words in a public area. My own copy was tucked up at home in my writing drawer.
I grinned. I put the magazine back on the rack. I grinned some more. A mother and her daughter gave me a quizzical look. I grinned anyhow.
Writing has been a surprise for me - a surprise that my words would be printed; a surprise that I would enjoy crafting the words; a surprise that others would read them.
Virginia Woolf gave me some sound advice the other day. She said that being a writer gives me the chance to live a rich life. Not rich from financial rewards, but rich from observing the world with intensity, rich from being engaged with the dailiness of life. I may not become a successful writer but I will be rich because I am a writer.
I'm eager to hear more Virginia Woolf wisdom when I attend my November writers' retreat, "Who's Afraid of Writing?"
