Reader

 I am twelve pages into writing my new spooky middle grade, so I went to the library with Welles today to hunt for some comparable books. I got to talking with the children's librarian while I was there. She is wonderful, and we always share hellos when I run in with Charlie. She laughs at me as I walk up and down the stacks, oohing and ahhing at all the books I want to read Charlie or simply reread myself.  So there we are in the children's section, Welles fussing in my arms. She was standing there with a stack of haunted house books for me, and we got to talking about writing. 
“Oh, I'm not a writer.” She shook her head.
“Listen,” I said, “You are surrounded by all these books! You read all these books!  You must be a writer!”
“No, really,” she said. “I'm a reader. Writing doesn't excite me like it does you.” 
That stuck with me. Because imposter syndrome is real, I kind of feel silly when I say I am a writer. I don’t make money writing. I have never had anything published. But I write daily. I am working on two middle grades, one picture book, and this blog. So I am certainly writing. And it does excite me. I love all of it. The flush of the idea, getting the first crappy words on the page, then when you realize you care about the characters. Then when you need people to see it, even if they don't connect with it. Then someone does connect, even if it's just with one line. I love sending my work to agents and getting awful form rejections and then wanting to shoot it out there again but forcing myself to wait and tighten screws or reread parts to make it shine a little more. 
I hope that one day I can watch as she puts my book on the shelf. And we can cheer one another because, without readers like her, there wouldn't be writers like me.