Live and Learn, or, The Queen of Denial

I was thinking about my history as a writer, and as a person, this morning in the shower. I was remembering the time I first learned I was a writer. It was when I was sixteen or seventeen, I’m not sure which, and wrote a story for my friends (the full tale of that is somewhere in the archives of this blog). Their reaction taught me what I was.

But then, I thought, that wasn’t the last time I learned I was a writer. When I first finished a novel length piece. When my readership expanded past my parents and close circle of friends. When it was the one craft I kept returning to, over and over, more than an interest, something that could not fully fade away although I gave it every chance. When I finally got serious about getting something published and began sending stuff out regularly. When I got the acceptance letter from Lyrical. When I learned what it meant to have a writing career, this last August and decided to go ahead anyway. Over and over, a learning that spans thirty years.

Maybe the truest things in your life are the ones you have to learn over and over.

It took me a lot of learning to accept that I’m really diabetic, too. I resisted going on insulin for a long time, refused to change my diet much. I had to nearly die to learn those lessons. And who knows, maybe I have more to learn about that. I almost certainly do.

Life is still trying to teach me I’m not really meant to have true love. The evidence is clear, the teaching is going on and on. I’m still trying not to learn that one. About some things, I’m stubborn.

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