I just got back from taking Penny, one of my two wire-haired miniature dachshunds, to the vet. I know that doesn’t sound earth-shattering, but it is. A little over three weeks ago, Penny leaped off the sofa and hurt her back. She was in terrible pain and crying constantly. She couldn’t walk at all, and she just lay there quivering with pain.
We rushed her to the emergency vet’s office, a little over an hour away. Our local vet recommended we take her there because they have a canine neurosurgeon on staff.
The new doctor recommended emergency surgery to prevent total paralysis, and we were terrified for little Penny. We gave the go-ahead, and sadly left Penny behind.
She came through the operation with flying colors. After a few days in intensive care, we were able to take her home. She had to remain crated for three weeks.
So, today, the neurosurgeon looked at her and said that if it wasn’t for the shaved spot on her back, no one would ever know she’d had an operation. Penny once again walks perfectly, perfectly balanced, strong and confident.
Hello. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to be a writer. I’m definitely a story-teller and I love words. I love the images words create and the way they sound when you hear them out loud. Believe it or not, I even loved parsing and diagramming sentences in English class.
A few times I started to work on a book or a story idea, but I never pursued it. Those mental demons we all have whispered that I was no good. They told me I couldn’t do it. They said I should give up. For a long time, I listened to those pesky voices. I was successful in lots of other areas, and the mental defeatist in me said that should be enough. Don’t try for more. You don’t have time; you don’t have talent; you don’t have the determination. So, despite it being my life long dream, everything else in life came first.
About a year ago, I realized that those voices were just me, telling me not to try. I decided to stop listening and start writing. I pulled out my dusty, half-finished novel and started writing again. I took some classes. I did some free-lance work. I wrote. And wrote.
My husband and I recently moved to a new house. We were meeting some of the new neighbors, and my husband introduced me as a freelance writer, instead of the marketing nerd I am in my “real” job. I did a little double take, wondering what he was talking about, until I realized he was talking about me. And then I smiled. He’s right. I’m a writer.