A writing fiasco

Ink and paper don’t risk my physical health but can damage my self-esteem. Once labeled a writer, one has an image to maintain, but that image of linguistic talent is a mirage, a shimmer in the far distance. Step closer and the glow fades. Make one mistake with the pen or keyboard and the ego crawls under the desk, sulking until the mistake, be it spelling or misuse, is glossed over with a new attempt at prose, poetry, or shopping list.

            I am, of course, seeking support for my image aka writing persona because in my rush to impress any number of readers, I recently misspelled poet Ginsberg’s first name, Alan instead of Allen. I’m certain that someone has said aloud, “She calls herself a writer? Pshaw! Who gave her a degree? Bet she bought her dissertation.” Of course, if said critic noticed my gaff, I should be relieved, if not pleased, that even a grumbler bothered to read what I so recently posted. Maybe I can start a rumor that all those publishers and Ginsberg’s own mother misspelled his first name. No? Okay, I’m sorry.

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