And then, in front of God, country, my parents and the entire fourth grade; Mr. Mattingly threw out a 12 x 9 or something equally as bewildering and naturally I balked.
I learned two things that evening.
1) I don’t actually know everything and that’s okay.
2) Mr. Mattingly was kind of an asshole.
never rarely boasted again. I chose my assertions about my self very carefully. It landed me some decent work in public relations, for a while. But then it felt contrived and spin-doctor-y and I was scary good at it – which I couldn’t boast about (see above) so I abandoned it (unless there is someone reading this right now who wants to pay me to do it and then I’ll make a concession, but I will absolutely *probably not* help you sell ‘chaw’ to teens).
If not public relations, there had to be somewhere to exercise my ego. So I began to write.
Writers have very hyperactive egos, it’s true.
We say we write for ourselves, and that might be true to some extent – and possibly for some people in its entirety – but we also write because we are slaves to our tireless egos.
Every once in a while something really cool happens. Your words resonate. Your voice is heard.
And your ego is satiated for the briefest of moments.
Kind of like when earlier this week I was on NPR!
Yep, you read that right. I. Was. On. National. Public. Freaking. Radio.
“Booyah! Take that, Mr. Mattingly!”