I went out for a couple of beers yesterday to watch The Superbowl in The World’s Lamest Bar. There were three of us at the table and, counting us, there were eleven people in the bar. On Superbowl Sunday. Now, I get that I live in a hockey city, but this was just weird. When trying to understand why this would be, I overheard the waitress say that the bar would be closing at 6pm. An hour before the game actually ends. Well, no wonder people weren’t there. Strange, no?

Aaaaanyway, I was at the bar with The Cheerleader I Climb Mountains With, and her cousin, N, who I really like… and not just because she told me about this guy. The thing was, The Cheerleader I Climb Mountains With introduced me to N by saying, “This is Robyn. She’s writing a book.”

How the hell do I answer to that!? I mean, it’s not like I’m some great, published author working on my 5th novella or something. I’m just a weirdo with a weird imagination trying to write a weird little book, and hoping that other people like it when it eventually hits the shelves.

Does that make me a writer? When can I say that I’m a ‘writer’, anyway? I mean, yah, I’m writing… but not as a way to make a living or anything. I cook dinner almost every night, but that doesn’t make me a chef, right?

I guess I feel more like I’m practicing, and hoping. But that’s a lot to put on a business card.

Do writers even have business cards?

I’m so confused.