Real Writers Really Work
By Diane Sonntag

On a recent Saturday morning, I attended my six-year-old son's hockey game.  (They tied 4-4.  Thank you for asking!)  It was the first game of the season and I wanted to introduce myself to the team mom.  I wanted her to know that she could call me if she needed help with snacks or uniforms or anything else the kids needed.
       

I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Hi, I'm Jordan's mom.  I'd be glad to help out if you ever need anything for the team."
       

She smiled and said, "Thanks for the offer.  Are you available during the day or just in the evenings?"
       

"Oh, you can call me anytime," I assured her.  "I don't work," I added with a slight shrug.
       

She thanked me and I walked away, kicking myself.  I don't work?  Why on earth did I say that?  I asked myself.  For the remainder of the day, my off-hand little comment irked me.  Not because of anything that lady may have thought about me, but because of the way it made me feel about myself.
       

First of all, I am the mother of two young children and anyone who thinks that's not work has never been around little kids.
       

Secondly-- and this is the one that really bugged me-- I do work.
 

I'm a writer.  And we all know that writing can be the most frustrating, brain cell-numbing work there is.
 

Why did I say that I don't work?  I could have said, "I work from home, so you can call me anytime," or even "I'm a freelance writer, so my schedule is pretty flexible."
 

The part that bothered me the most is that I was actually holding my writing notebook in my hands as I spoke to that lady.  I had brought it to the game, hoping to have a few moments to write between periods.  I had three deadlines coming up the following week and I needed to use every minute to its full advantage.
 

Between each period, while the Zamboni machine resurfaced the ice, I frantically wrote down a few paragraphs for one of my articles.  While the other parents chatted and the coaches gave the kids a pep talk, I was scribbling my ideas down in my notebook.
 

If that's not a writer working hard, I don't know what is.
 

Yet, less than an hour later, I actually told someone that I don't work.
 

Why?  I asked myself repeatedly.
 

I've always been proud of my writing, but I'm also nervous about sharing it with other people.  I'm not afraid to send it out to editors because I don't know them personally.  If they think my work stinks, it's just a reflection on my work, not on me as a person.  But if I open myself up and share something I've written with a loved one, and he thinks it's drivel, then it becomes far more personal.  "She actually thinks she can write," I can almost hear them say.  "She's got real nerve thinking anyone would want to read anything she wrote."
 

Even my own mother has to Google me to find out what I've written lately.  I tell people what I'm working on if they ask me directly, but only then.
 

Plus, when you tell someone you're a writer, there's always that standard list of questions everyone asks.  "Have you written anything I might have heard of?" and "What books have you written?"
 

When I admit that my lengthy and oh-so-impressive list of publication credits includes zero books, one national magazine article, one essay in a Chicken Soup anthology, two regional magazine articles, and a couple of dozen Internet articles, they nod and smile politely.
 

I can almost hear their thoughts.  "She's not a real writer.  She's never even written a book."
 

So maybe I keep my work to myself to avoid all the real questions I'm asked, as well as the other person's imaginary thoughts that run through my head.
 

But if I don't want to tell people what I do, why did my "I don't work" comment drive me so crazy?
 

Then I realized that it was all about respect.  By telling someone that I don't work, I was disrespecting my writing and that made me sad.  It's an important part of my life and something that I truly am proud of, regardless of how secretive I am about sharing it with others.
 

I belittled my writing that morning and that's not something I'm going to do again.  After all, if I don't respect what I do, how can I expect others to do so?
 

I'm a writer.  Not a full-time professional writer, but a slightly shy, stay-at-home mom writer who writes about things that are important to me.
       

The only criteria I'm aware of for being a writer-- a real writer-- is that you wrote today.
 

So on that Saturday morning, regardless of what I said, I was a writer.
       

A real writer.
       

And that, my friend, is real work.
 

Diane Sonntag is a freelance writer who specializes in parenting and family issues.  Her work has been published in Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul, Celebrate Life, Sasee, and on several parenting and writing websites.  She can be reached at Rydeej@sbcglobal.net.
 

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