Like many writers, I think I’m so much better than I actually am. The funny thing about writing is that we writers love our own work more than anyone else. We are like little peacocks asking everyone to admire our shabby plumes. And the sad reality is that not many people love what we think is awesome.

It’s hard to accept that what we believe as great is … not so great at all. Why do we… or I as a writer… think I am the next best thing since sliced bread (which was a pretty big deal!). Is it arrogance? Self delusion? Stupidity? or is it hope?

I remember reading a quote by C.S. Lewis in which he outlined the path to becoming a Christian. In essence, he said, pretend to be a Christian and you will become a Christian. Do what Christians do and you will find that you become what you pretend to be.

If I may, I wish to hijack and retool his philosophy. If one hopes to be a writer, pretend to be a writer and do what writers do, and you will find that you become what you pretend to be: a writer. And the catalyst that nourishes such practiced faith is hope.

Indeed, hope causes me to strut around cyberspace like an arrogant peacock and post idiotic musing on social media. And if I am a bother, please do not judge me. I’m a little writer with developing wings, strutting around like those writers I admire most. Because I believe that one day my downy coat will slough away, revealing everything I hoped and dreamed. That behind me, in my wake, is a plume of stunning, beautiful, vibrant stories that cause the world to stop and stare, and even say beneath baited breath; “My God. That is beautiful.”

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