the real writer

i'm just a fake writer. i like to distribute my thoughts on my blog and on facebook. i realize that i am a bad grammar person. i make constant mistakes. i don't really even edit my writing i just write like it's my own personal diary that no one will ever see. but that's me. i don't really care. really.

i once took a writing class with my husband. the man i deeply love. my best friend in the whole world. i dropped the class. he's a real writer. i'm competitive.

we had to bring in samples of our journal. and read them aloud. we all sat around a table nervously reading the thoughts from our brain that we had tried to capture on paper. i read mine. quiet. and then a "oh, that's nice" from the professor. the process kept going around the table until it got to my husband. my husband. the real writer. he read his work. the teacher put a hand to her breast, sighed and practically fell upon her desk writhing in ecstasy. she was about 65. i should have been proud that my husband could ellicit such a reaction. i should have smiled and looked around at the class and said "yep, he's mine". they might not have noticed because they were all writhing and in tears as well. but no. promptly after that class i went to the office of wichita state university and dropped the class. no way was i going to sit through THAT every week.

so. i have a blog. he does not. i doodle and journal little things on my grocery list. he does not. i have hopes that he will one day write again cuz i'm over myself. i like to think i could take a class with him again and make it through to the end.....