Why Yes, I Am a Writer

Why has that been so hard to say? I attended my first meeting of a writers’ group last night at a (local, independent!) Alameda bookstore, and I sat with five people, far more creative and imaginative than I (they write fiction). Every one of them — every single one of them — made this statement: “I’m writing a book.” Yet to my surprise, no one scoffed from Biography, let out a “Yeah, right” from YA or loud whispered “Liar liar pants on fire” from behind the cookbook shelf. The terrifying thing about this is, if you say you’re writer, you have to write. If you say you’re writing something, you have to write that something. But with massive and heroic accountability, these people put it out there: and they aren’t just committing to writing about what they think, things that have actually happened, and what other people have written — which is what I do — but rather they are committing to making a lot (a lot) of shit up that is entertaining and makes sense. That is a tall order in 64-ounce 7-Eleven sense, and I am talking about committing to a juice box here. So I’m going to do the very same thing, accountability and hecklers be damned. I will hear all of the aforementioned responses, however, and not from the sections of a bookstore, but rather from that one heckling section of my brain which, despite not being given permission to speak, too frequently does so anyway. So I will treat it like a fragrant BART station ambassador, like that new funky smell in my car, and the unpleasant circumstance of every dish, utensil and Tupperware I own being dirty and on the counter: I will ignore it. So here it is: I am a writer. (One of last night’s attendees told me I looked like a writer, so I figure I’m already 75, maybe 80% there anyway.)

Many of you may know me best as Red Pill Mama from a blog by the name of Red Pill Parents. I started this with a like-minded friend and dad (with the nom de plume of Red Pill Papa and a last name of Propp, therefore aka Red Pill Proppa, giggle, snort) in the early years of my stay-at-home-momhood, during which I became fairly horrified at many of the ways people were living — and parents were parenting — in my then-residence, a suburb of Atlanta. Though I’m on the Best Coast now and arguably at ground zero for Conscious Living (only a few miles from Berkeley, you know), the lion’s share of my horror now comes from continuing to learn the truth about a great many things related to living and parenting, with a bobcat’s share coming from Facebook and a small kitten’s share the product of reviewing my own pantry. This will be RPM’s new home for spouting opinion, sharing resources and information, and if all goes well, publishing with occasional wisdom and judicious use of the Oxford comma.

With immense and immeasurable gratitude to Joy, April, Romney, Eric and Annie, I welcome you all to Red Pill Mama on Medium.

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