Suffering under the double whammy of reticence from spending the first 20 years of my life in Denmark and the next 23 (so far) in Canada – both of which are not exactly known for ebullience in their citizens – I find myself getting all shy about blogging this one.
Ever since I knew what a writer is, I've wanted to be one. Anything else I have done has been a second choice, brought on by fits of being “realistic” and having “something to fall back on”. I’ve had some interesting second choices – corrections, social worker, policy work in human rights – even felt passionate about some of them, but never like writing. Writing is the holy grail for me, it’s a magical place where I've always felt a sense of belonging, a sense of rightness and for a long time, I wrote for myself, leaving being serious about it for “some day”.
Then last year, I decided that “some day” was now, that I had dreamed long enough and it was time to take a leap of faith and buy the ticket.
And today I hold in my hands the magazine in which my first piece is published and the cheque with which they paid me.
I am ecstatic and overwhelmed.