Small victories

I've made no secret that I've kept a journal since I was eight years old. Even before I knew why I was interested in boys, I became interested in writing about them.

When I wasn't writing as a kid, I was reading. I was shy in my elementary school years, and would tear through books by Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Paula Danziger, and Lois Lowry faster than most other kids could get through a single chapter.

Somewhere between reading stories and telling stories, I got hooked on the writing. I found a bizarre pleasure in diagramming sentences in seventh grade grammar, and while I couldn't memorize an algebraic formula to save my life, I committed spelling lists to memory on-sight. When other kids handed in half-hearted essays on what they did during their summer vacation, I turned in pages of what, I thought, at least, passed as prose. My tongue loved being teased with concepts like "onomatopoeia," and I will never forget the most romantic words I learned while studying Romeo and Juliet: "iambic pentameter." Sigh.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved writing. But despite the journals and the A's in English, and, more recently, this blog, I've never felt entirely entitled to call myself a writer.

Until now.

I mentioned a while ago that I had some freelancing projects in the works, mostly corporate stuff similar to what I already do for a living. But then there was this one tiny thing I was drafting, a personal essay of sorts... that I found out today will be published in the LA Times.

This is huge for me. I am not a writer by trade, only partly by passion. Most freelance writers spend weeks perfecting pitches in the hopes of confirming a clip, boasting a byline. The essay isn't lengthy or very significant, but it is appearing in a national freaking newspaper and it is mine. All mine.

I've held off writing about this so as to not jinx my luck, and truthfully, I am still awaiting the date for when the piece will run. But I have the lightly copy-edited version in my Inbox with a "nicely done" from the editor, so I feel like even if it turns into a kill-fee, I've gained just a little bit more out of life.

Thanks, Bill.