I’ve had a couple of people suggest to me that I join a writing club. My Friend With The Giant Baby is in one, and she says it’s very relaxed and everyone is super kind… and they eat a lot of food. Sounds like my kind of club! She keeps trying to convince me to join them, but I’m too afraid that I’m not talented enough. I’m afraid that I’ll read something out loud, and then the room will fall completely silent, until:

“…well, that was… good. Yes, good.”

“Ummm… yeah, I agree. It was… good”.

“Yes, well done Robyn… I, too, think that was… *ahem* good.”

“…yep. Ditto for me. Good… so… who wants cake!?”

“ME!”

“ME!!”

“ME!”

I’m petrified of people telling me that I suck donkey nards as a writer, but on the flip-side, I’m even more scared that I suck donkey nards as a writer and people don’t tell me! Like, they feel they have to say nice things, when inside their poor brains have been depleted by my inane ramblings, and sad attempts at humour. I DON’T WANT TO DEPLETE PEOPLE’S BRAINS!

So, I have yet to join a writing club. When I’m feeling more confident, I’ll go with My Friend With The Giant Baby to her club, and see what it’s all about. It sounds far less intimidating than my imagination is. I’m sure it would do me some good, don’t you think?

Bonus story just for your entertainment:

Yesterday I went to the liquor store to grab some football-day beer for The Cheerleader I Live With. I grabbed a box of Mickey’s (because I think they’re adorable, and have fun little puzzles on the undersides of the caps), and as I was walking to the front counter I contemplated buying a bottle of wine for myself. I bent over a red wine rack to look at a few labels more closely, and the salesboy comes up and says, “may I help you?” I stood up, and replied that I was just looking at the bottles, but decided to take the beer and go. We walked to the front counter. He asked me how my day was, and I said that it was “terrific” (because it was), and he smiled. We started a little at-the-counter smalltalk about the weather and the Canucks, and all seemed quite cheery. Then the salesboy said, “Just so you know, I was going you ID you until I saw your face. Just a little compliment there for you”

He smiles broadly, hands me my change, slides the beer toward me and says, “have a great day!”

I stood there trying to wrap my head around the fact that this little twit just called me old, AND he considered it a compliment! I, with my now bright red face, smiled back, babbled something that was a cross between ‘have a nice day‘ and ‘get bent, you wiener‘, and took my beer home. I told The Cheerleader I Live With about it, and in true dutiful style he asked me if I wanted him to go beat up the salesboy. Who says chivalry is dead?

I thanked him, but politely declined his offer of doing damage to someone’s face in order to salvage what was left of my apparently decrepit dignity. He ‘humpf‘ed and pouted for a bit, but then the wheels began to turn inside his weird man-brain. “WAIT!” , he said, “I know what happened! He was ogling your butt and got all happy when he realized that some hot 18-year-old babe was in his store, but when you stood up and talked to him, he saw that you were NOT 18 years old, and perhaps you were, like, 22 years old! THAT’S why he said it. You have the ass of an 18-year-old, baby! …wait. That little dick was staring at my girl’s ass! I’m going to go beat him up!”

With my emotions all asunder, I once again stopped The Cheerleader I Live With from performing a random act of romantic violence, and then took a moment to consider what it was that he just told me. I have the ass of an 18-year-old girl, and the seasoned face of a woman. That is a compliment! By jove, I think I’ve got it! Well, I must admit that I felt much better then. I decided to celebrate with a beer… and 100 squats.

Thanks Salesboy!

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