Permission

I was sitting at a coffee shop struggling through the first rough draft of a novel.

It was early November, and I was sitting with a group of NaNoWriMo writers that took up half of the shop. We were a motley crew of all ages and backgrounds. We looked up from our laptops to discuss our word count, our ADD, our plots or lack thereof. Towards the end of the night as people cleared out, a pretty young woman at the table next to me asked how all of us had known each other. “Oh, NaNoWriMo,” I said, and assuming she had no clue what it was, I started to explain, “It’s an event where people try to write a novel in a month.“

She knew NaNoWriMo, and was amazed that we had been sitting right next to her all this time. She asked me about my novel and how the writing was going. I told her all about it, explaining that my novel was a young adult fantasy. I talked about a part of my novel that was confusing me, and she offered me sound advice that I was impressed by.

Then she talked about how she used to be involved in NaNoWriMo, but she had never been to a write-in before. She went on to tell me, “That’s what I do for a living. Write. I’m a professional writer.”

“Oh, what kind of writing?”

“Fiction,” she said. “Young adult fantasy.”

Just like me.

And I, in my ignorance, my disbelief, said, “So, are you published?” And she told me she was. She told me how she was five days late with her revision deadline for her next book, but every evening she was late, she sent her editor pictures of cute animals to say sorry. 

By this point I had turned into a blushing fangirl, and I asked for her name and the name of her books. She told me (I won’t share it here to protect her privacy) and I rambled about how that was so cool, while she shrugged it off. 

I couldn’t quite believe that I had met someone who was living a life I only dreamed about. A published writer was sitting a few feet from me! She was only a year older than me, lived in my area, haunted the same coffee shops. I was so flustered I couldn’t get any more writing done, so I packed up. We said goodbye to each other and I left.

What had taken place had been even more important than meeting a writer.

 She had discussed my work with me, taking it seriously and offering me advice. She had told me about her struggles with her own work. This young writer, whether she had meant to or not, had given me permission to write. And after our talk, I felt a new resolve and determination for my own writing. 

And so, thank you, nameless author, for the permission. I will work hard on my writing. And someday, I hope to join the ranks of writers like yourself.

But first, I'll start a blog.