Monday, on a late night coffee run, I ran into a friend of mine whom I haven't seen in at least four years. Halfway through the obligatory, "So fill me in on your life since I last saw you," conversation, he stopped and said, "I hear you're writing again! Very cool!" Which was followed by many questions pertaining to the state of my novel.
To be fair, I do take my writing seriously. I fully intend to sit down and hash out the second part of this year's NaNo, now that I'm more mobile and less violently ill.
It was a magical moment. In that moment, I was a "writer," publicly known as such and celebrated as such, even though I have been battling with what still seems to be a block of overly wet clay, with random pop-vocabulary oozing out the sides, and loosely developed plot hanging pathetically from a lumpy structure.
"I hear you're writing again! How is your book coming along?" Fabulously. Thanks for asking.