Some of you know that I am the great niece of E.B. White. The connection is by marriage and my relationship to him is only through a legal document but it’s still a pretty neat thing to be able to throw out at parties.
When I was younger and showed some writing talent, there was much talk of me being the next writer in the family. Apparently my family didn’t have a strong grasp on how genetics or more accurately THE LACK OF ANY GENETIC CONNECTION worked. There wasn’t too much pressure there for me to follow in the footsteps of one of the greatest American writers.
I mention this because I will never be another E.B. White and I’m okay with that. There will never, ever be another E.B. White anywhere. Period. The man was God.
Fortunately I realized earlier in my life that I wasn’t cut out to be a pharmacist (enrolled for a few years in the program at UCONN) or a microbiologist, or even a computer tech writer. If I had followed through with those life paths, I would have been miserable.
Telling stories is what makes me happy.
It’s even why I went and got this tattoo. It’s Kokopelli, the storyteller. I wanted to be reminded always of what I was meant to do.
And if telling stories about my chickens and children is what works then I’m going to go with it. After staying up until the cows came home (or at the very least, the chickens started clucking) I have finished a manuscript of my adventures and lessons learned with the chickens.
Is it a masterpiece? Nope.
Will it need adjustments? Oh most decidedly. I know of very few people who hit the nail on the head the first time.
But it’s done and the content is good and solid. There are some clever bits in it and if it needs to be massaged, that can be done. I think its got a chance, even in this publication shy environment.
After all, (and here’s where the family relationship pays off) if one of my relatives can write a book about a pig and a spider and still be seen as an accomplished writer, then I can write a book about a fowl flock and still hold my head up high.