For the longest time I had problems with the title of being an author.
I don’t why?
Whenever it came to someone asking me about my books, or the “Internet” thing I was doing, I either changed the subject, or quickly as I could, or half answered a mumble and nodded, “Yeah, yeah, great.”
You’d swear I’d done time in jail I used to be so embarrassed about it…or just been caught farting in public.
I mean, compared to the other members in our extended family, teachers, builders, etc.
But compared to what they did, my time spent alone tapping the keys, lost in my imagination, just didn’t sit right with me.
I don’t know why?
Maybe it’s the same for you?
…maybe you’re one of those people that runs screaming out the door, with a book, clutched to your chest, screaming that you’re now a published author.
If you are, I’m jealous of you.
If I painted walls, I’d have no problem calling myself a painter.
If I drove a taxi cab, I’d have no problem calling myself a cabbie.
I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
But the reviews tell a different story.
Readers enjoy my books, some even call me a good “Author.”
I don’t know about you, but I still feel like the guy whose going to get caught out as a fake.
The actor David Niven had the same problem. Said he was always waiting for the knock on the door.
Looks like I’m in good company then.
Maybe I’ll start small and buy a mug with the word “Author” on it.
How about you?
Faker or screamer?
Both are welcome at WriteCome.