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I actually don’t know where to start. I’ve drafted this post like four times. What a dork. Is it weird that I feel like the first one has to be grand and memorable?  It’s not like the start of a novel; hardly anyone will read this beginning. (Please, dear God of the publishing world just let me ((my agent)) sell my novel and make lots of people read it so I can call myself a YA author.) But until the manuscript becomes the novel, there is this blog’s beginning.

Tonight I was eating birthday cake with my husband’s friends (Josh turned 36), and they asked me about my book–specifically, something to do with the sex scene. We had a good laugh over John’s disappointment that I did not use the phrase “purple-headed warrior,” in the book. But, the thing is, I’m beginning to feel like a writer. Up until now, I’ve always felt that cloud of amateurism over my head in social settings, ducking my head and explaining away this *thing* I’ve been doing for about seven years that may or may not become a profession. This *thing* that takes time away from my husband and kiddos, that leaves my house unsuitable for hosting parties, and that makes me incredibly happy. I usually sounded something like, “Well, yeah, I’m working on a book, but you know, well, yeah, maybe some day, I mean I hope, um, yeah I’m serious about, I just ya know…*snort*…so what do you do?”  But tonight, I sounded different. I’m not saying I sounded confident, but I finally didn’t sound like I was Eugene from Grease, either.

It’s a start.

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