According to one of my readers and Facebook friends Scott Sheperd, I have an edge to my writing and I write well. Wow.  I’m speechless and I am very, very flattered.

You see–this is a one of those true confession moments–I think that most of the time I suck. I constantly worry about syntax, grammar, punctuation, trying to come up with clever metaphors and similes. And let’s not forget an original storyline.

But there are times when I decide to throw that anxiety out the window (better that than me; although it wouldn’t do me any good since I live on a one floor cottage. So no suicide attempts by standing on the ledge and jumping. The only damage I’ll do is jolt my ankles and knees) and just write whatever the hell I feel like writing. And I guess when I do that I have a natural edge to the way I express. Is it hormonal or just a personality quirk? Who knows.

Now another confession: After Scott’s comment I had a bit of Walter Mitty moment. I imagined I was at a party drinking my San Pelligrino with a twist of lemon. I’m approached by one of the better looking guys in the room (a doctor preferably, actually a veterinarian would be better with all the dogs I have) and he starts to chat me up. Then he asks me what I do for a living after he’s told me that he’s a vet and has offered to give all three of my dogs free physicals (I can dream). And I say, “Oh, I’m a writer.”

“Really? What do you write?’

“I write for a magazine that focuses on art, craft, and design.”

“How interesting. Do you also write fiction?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So how would you describe your style? Are you a woman’s writer?” and he says this with a bit of a smirk on his face.

This is probably the moment I choke on my San Pelligrino. Although there are wonderful women authors, most of the ones I’ve recently read  haven’t rung my bells. So I can see the handsome vet is already trying to peg me because I write about weaving, but listen dude, I wrote Novel Gothic, and So You Want a a Revolution, and Dead or Alive. I don’t write about strollers or the trials and tribulations of working for Anna Wintour.  Uh-uh. My fiction is about my political passions. Although my blood is boiling, I gracefully compose myself and say, “Well there are some wonderful women authors like Rebecca Coleman, Ann Hite, and Randy Susan Meyers. We all have very different styles.”

“And what’s yours?” he says, moving in closer invading my personal space.

I clear my throat. “Well, I’ve been described as edgy.”

That’s when the Mitty moment fades with me having the last word.  Now that I have this reputation of being edgy, I really need to dial it up, and keep it there.

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