It took me a long time to begin thinking of myself as a writer.
It has taken me much longer to start to tell other people.
In fact, there are plenty of people in my life who don't know I write at all. There are a lot of reasons I keep it to myself: they're acquaintances and it just hasn't come up. They're work-friends and we don't talk that much about our personal lives. They're people I don't speak to all that often, and when we play periodic "catch up," mentioning that I spend all my free time writing gets lost under all the "Oh, and I got married!" updates.
Then there are the people I don't tell because I dread the inevitable next question: "What do you write?"
I don't mind answering, "A novel." Or even, "A young adult novel." It's the people who press beyond that, who want to know the details, that trip me up. It's not that I can't talk about what I'm writing, it's just that... I kind of don't want to. I feel conflicted about that - shouldn't I want to be shouting it from the rooftops? Gauging people's interest? Getting my elevator speech ready? But until the words on the page at least come close to approximating the ideas in my head, my instinct is to play things pretty close to the vest.
Here's the thing: the more I talk about what I'm writing, the less I want to write it. It feels like a little bit of the magic seeps away each time. And - particularly when it's in first draft form - my stories feel so fragile. I don't want to breathe too hard around them for fear of jostling the perfect picture I have in my brain. So I keep quiet and tread lightly.
How about you? Secret keeper? Rooftop shouter? Something in between?
One month. 26 posts. A to Z. (Don't know what I'm talking about? Check out the Challenge here.)