Recently, I wrote a post about my tendency to overdo. My capacity for overdoing has caused me difficulties throughout my life: my health, my intellectual pursuits, my relationships with others, my attitude toward money, toward drugs, toward sex. My life would have been different in most ways, if I had learned to overcome this tendency.
Twenty years ago, people complimented me on my writing and my delivery of sermons. I wish I could have said that I was truly inspired, but the fact is, I love performing before people, and the more solemn and stately, the better. I learned that delivery style while in Rainbow girls, (Masons’ daughters,) as a young teenager, and I’ll speak in front of anyone, anywhere.
But the content of my sermons was what people seemed to appreciate the most. I had them all saved on a very old, Tandy-formatted floppy disc, and I lost them all trying to convert them to Mac. At that time, I’d thought that they might make a good book. Now, I haven’t done any real writing or speaking in the last decade, until this blog, but after I got over the sweet-little-helper version of myself, and down to the real me, people have begun to say once again that they like my writing.
I think I was talking with S. when I first thought of it, but I said I always wanted to have already written a book, so that the work was behind me and I could accept lavish praises for a job well done. I don’t feel that way anymore — I’ve returned to the me who can’t type fast enough to get all her words down. This time, I can say confidently, finally, that I am a writer, and a book just needs me to start telling the story. I really that about me, too. (None of that pesky modesty to get in the way!)