I’m on the board of a small library whose mission is to preserve and excite the literary passions of our community. It’s a pretty kick-ass little library, and it runs on the dedication of a part time librarian, an even more part time communications person, a board, and a slew of volunteers. The things we are able to accomplish together are pretty amazing. And while it can be SO MUCH WORK, it is so very worth it, even when I’m complaining and grumbling about it.

After a meeting the other night I was chatting with another board member about our writing program, and mentioned that her co-chair on the writers committee was one of my professors in college. And it all came tumbling out that I had been a professional writing major as an undergrad, and had learned from four or five of the writers she works with today. And this board member, co-chair of the writers committee, also happens to be a New York Times best selling author. We had begun our conversation talking about a potential author speaking at an event over the summer, but finished the conversation with her bright eyes blazing into mine and saying “And you? What of your writing?” And she is so kind and lovely and well meaning, and I explained that I’d turned into a librarian and reader and supporter of writing and authors and lover of all things literary, but hadn’t thought about writing in ages. I mean, I have a bright orange poster of the Dewey Decimal system hanging in my office.

But her words got under my skin, so here I am. I’m going to start here, and I’ll see what happens. Because maybe I don’t want to be a writer with a capital ‘W’. But I used to write. And I used to love it. So maybe this next version of me is a librarian, reader, supporter of writers and authors, lover of all thing literary, who sometimes writes. And maybe once in a while it’ll actually be good. And maybe then I can turn to this board member after a meeting and say “Hey, I’ve got something to share with you.”