Humble Pie is Not Square

Well, boys and girls, I like to think of myself as a writer now that I have my shiny new MFA in creative non-fiction. Since I paid quite a chunk of change for said degree and have read and written my over-educated redneck ass off in the pursuit, I figure I can lay claim to, well, being a writer. But there is writing, and there is writing (one should attempt in writing never to begin a sentence using "there" just as one should attempt in writing never to say never). But I have since encountered a book by someone who makes me feel every bit the hack I probably am but, hey, at least self-awareness can be thought of as a virtue if you can find a belt and shoes to match. What brings me to this sudden realization (sudden, as contrasted with, say, the two years and untold thousands of dollars I laid out convincing myself that I might aspire to call myself a writer some day as in the odd moments when I'm sitting at a deli counter with my laptop and some stranger asks, "Oh, are you a writer?" And then I throw up a little bit in my mouth before quickly mustering enough gumption to say, "Why, yes, I am, indeed, a writer." But I digress...) -- what brings me to this sudden realization is the book and the author of said book I am now reading. Yowza. What a talent. I'll share more in my next post. Which will follow shortly after I can find a knife and fork and fetch me some of that humble pie I've been cookin' up in the kitchen where I've yet to turn on the gas for that stove that has not been used in nearly three years' time. Back in a jif.