It is day one of October and I’m so sick even my knee caps ache. Certainly not anticipating any epiphanies today.
When an impulse guided me to read Sarah Selecky’s blog post, “You’re an introvert, aren’t you?” (www.sarahselecky.com). While few people on the planet would EVER call ME an introvert, in Sarah’s post I came across research psychologist Anders Ericsson’s “ten thousand hours” rule that apparently was made famous in a Malcolm Gladwell essay. “Ten thousand hours: this is the amount of time a person needs to practice a skill deliberately before becoming an expert.”
Clearly, we all know then that I’ll never be an “expert” in the kitchen. The “ten thousand hours” rule did, however, make it abundantly clear to me that I AM A WRITER.
That a person with journalism and English degrees, who has been writing consistently since age 13, and who has earned a living for 20+ years telling stories in magazine and newsletter articles, annual reports, speeches, letters, media releases, scripts, and now grants, would not see herself as a writer makes me laugh. I have even ended relationships because I wasn’t writing.
And yet, until about an hour ago, this glaringly obvious fact had not occurred to me. Everyone who has worked with me and known me well, including psychics, has observed it. But not me!
I could question how and why I missed this simple truth, and I probably will, however, for right now, I’m just taking pleasure in the discovery that I AM A WRITER. I am not a social worker, or a philanthropist, or a saint and I am not just a writer, however, I AM A WRITER. NAME IT. CLAIM IT. My knee caps feel better already.