One Hundred Posts. Does That Make me an Author?

This is my one hundredth post.  I am amazed and delighted by this fact, of which I was informed when I went to my dashboard this morning.

I am grateful to Blogger for giving me a forum to share my thoughts and ideas, my concerns and observations.  I appreciate the way the whole thing works, the visual appeal of a blog, the opportunity to post photos and links, video and music.  I enjoy sharing ideas about the world and humanity with the many bloggers and readers I have met through this wonderful venue.  Writing is the loneliest of professions, and just to be able to post something and find a reaction by way of a comment the next day is what propels someone like me to continue.  And continue I have, to post every week.  Be it an essay, a poem, a story, a memory, my posts have helped me to know myself better, and to gain confidence in my urge to share what is inside my heart and mind with readers.

Several weeks ago, I was again at the library for the annual event I organize with my friend Terrill the local public library supervisor.  The first part of the event was a workshop with Canadian author Robert Weirsema.  It was an unusual workshop; we didn't do any writing except to make a few notes on the handout he gave us - A list of Ten Thoughts for Writers (actually there were eleven).  Robert did give a fascinating lecture on the day in the life of a working writer, the various stages of a book, from notes to finished product, and I enjoyed the event along with the rest of the large group who attended.  The second event was an evening of readings by local writers.  Not many of us showed up (we found out later that most people believed the event to be on the Thursday evening, two days later, as it had been every other year), but the group who did, placed our chairs in a circle and read to each other.  My friend Marilee and I sang a little a capella duet she wrote, we read to each other some more, and then we ate and drank tea.  All in all, it was a happy evening among friends.  Even my husband showed up to support me and ended up telling a story - ad lib - about our rafting trip up north nineteen years ago. 

After the event, Terrill, my husband and I cleaned up and talked about the evening.  Terrill began to tell me of an idea she had.  She said I should put together the best of my essays, write an introduction, and send it off to some literary agents.  She said:  "You've been writing for years.  You're good, your essays are great.  It is time."  I went home and pondered this for a few weeks.  I'm a real slow mover.

Last week I got one of those emails from our regional library informing me of some books that had come in for me.  I didn't recognize the titles, though I did recognize one of the authors, Nick Hornby.  When had I ordered these books?  They weren't the kind of titles anyone in my family would order, although my son Ian was expanding his reading horizons and I thought they may be his choices...but why order them on my account when he had his own?  (He works at the library.)  Slightly baffled but curious, I went to the library to pick up the books.  Two volumes of essays were presented to me by one of library workers.  Attached was a short note: 

Rebecca - These are essays.  People put their essays in a book.  Ahem.

Of course the note was from Terrill.  She had ordered the books for me.  The audacity!

So now, I am reading one of the books, Nick Hornby's Songbook.  The other is From A to X:  A Story in Letters by John Berger.  I am starting to get 'ideas' for my own collection.  And if it actually gets published, I know one person at least, besides my ever-supportive parents, who will buy a copy.

It's good to have a friend in your corner.

The picture above was borrowed from here.