Critiqued

Earlier this week, the littlest two of my children and I visited my husband at work. We feel like rock stars when we go, as everyone fawns over the babies and oohs and ahhs and can't seem to get enough. Sometimes we make the rounds to different offices, for this very reason.

Our visit this time was relatively brief. We packed up to leave and headed toward the door. As I walked past one cubicle, the copy editor inside called me over and told me how much she enjoyed my piece, and that I should consider publishing it. Then she said I was a good writer. She should know, right? I mean, she is one.

I was perplexed. My husband had shared my writing.

And it is publishable?

It's been mentioned to me on more than one occasion that perhaps, somewhere down the road, I could write a book. On experiences, what I learned, how to mother (laughable, to me), how to have a big family and seem to do it with ease. Write the next great novel. All nice ideas to think about, but nothing I ever thought about seriously.

Now, someone "in the business" is telling me that I should. I'm looking at what I write differently.

At any given time I have a half dozen drafts of pieces written for this blog. Some I finish, some I don't. The piece she mentioned I wrote in approximately four minutes. No revisions. No changes. And it's good enough to publish? I wrote my best papers in college this way, at 2 AM the night before it was due, pulling the words out from who knows where, putting it all down, and being done.

It's put a different spin on everything I think about now, everything I write. And, maybe, maybe, I will look into it. With everything I've wanted to put after my name, sign to my self as my accomplishments in the world, I've thought about it, but never really thought seriously enough. Now I will.