I feel like a normal person. I mean, I don't have two heads, and although I have my quirks, I don't think they put me outside the box of what "everyday" people do. Yet the reaction when I tell people I'm a writer is always one of surprise and amazement.
While at Barbara O'Neal's discussion group at the library last week, Barbara pointed out that in addition to book club members, and some 'off the street' attendees, there were also a couple of writers present, and she pointed us out. Jaws dropped.
While I was getting my library card last week, I was chatting with the librarian, who remembered me from the discussion group. I mentioned my interest in doing programs for their library, and as we chatted, a woman standing in line waiting to return her books spoke up. She said, "Am I in the presence of a real author?" My response was, "Yes," although I didn't continue with, "and it's not really such a big deal."
I never got that reaction when I said I was a teacher, which I think is a much more difficult and honorable profession. And certainly not when I was a part time assistant to a non-profit scientific organization (although when I mentioned it was a group involved in marine mammal science, I got a few questions—mostly about dolphins, about which I know very little. I was the person who entered membership data into a computer.)
