I think I keep forgetting that writing a novel takes time, especially when typing with acrylic nails–but some sacrifices must be made for upcoming weddings; friends are worth it.
So I type–click, click, clack, and I think about the stories I have started. This year? Probably ten of them. Yeah. I am on the first page, or the first chapter, and that is it–yet I call myself a writer. Perhaps I am like people in Africa, “I am a teacher. I have the certification, the degree, and whether I do teach or not is entirely beside the point” (a friend today told me that roles/titles/positions are very important to the people of Africa, whether they do what the position requires or not). Maybe I am a pseudo-writer : with acrylic nails.
It’s like a dairy farmer who wears high heels, pencil skirts, and blow-dried hair. Right.
But I guess for such a time as this in my life, I’ll read my books when I get the chance, peck out a few words when they flash into my head, and take little chicken steps: maybe someday out of all these words, books, and chicken scratches a novel will emerge. It may take years. And who knows, I may still be wearing acrylic nails.