Why I can't say the "w-word"

 

My daughter cliff-dives in Greece, and my granddaughter hang-glides in Brazil. . . so, you may ask, what sort of risks have I taken? Are you kidding? I WRITE, for God’s sake, and for 30 years or so I couldn’t even say I was “one of those” without inciting laughter or a derisive “yeah, right!”. It took me until age 50 to publish my first novel, and there were two more after that, and I am immensely proud of that accomplishment. But it’s still the same old story: “you’re a WHAT?” Just daring to say you’re a . . ., you know. . . a . . . (don’t say it, they’ll think you’re pretentious or lying) is, to me, an extreme sport. Here I strike various overdramatic poses, and by the way, I reviewed ALL the books on those shelves behind me! I know who I am, and of course the process of writing is its own reward - but it’s sort of sad that the rest of the world hasn’t caught up with me yet. I’m not holding my breath.