Lately, I have been writing bit pieces for a renowned music publication. I grew up reading it as a magazine, and then it joined the 21st century and morphed it into a website.
And somehow, recently the stars have aligned just the right way, and I got a tiny toenail in the door. The pieces are tiny—filler stories. I’ve seen museum wall plaques with a higher word count than these pieces are meant to be. But, I’m in. And that counts for something. A lot actually. A whole lot.
But, here’s the the thing. I wrote my little author blurb, and it reads nice. And then I made a huge mistake. I began reading the other writers’ blurbs. And it scared me. These people…they are giants. These are not struggling writers with padded resumes. These are real, honest to God music critics that have decades of impressive credentials to back it up.
And then there is me. I’m not starting out in my career. I’ve got some credentials. Certainly not as many as I would like, but I’m not a rookie. But I’m also no giant. At the end of the day, I’m just an ex-missionary with an addiction to coffee and Microsoft Word and iTunes. And I guess that’s all you really need, anyway.
But here, among these as my peers, my colleagues, I feel like a hobbit in the company of giants. And I am straining my neck, wondering if I have what it takes to get where they are. Trying in some ways to fake it. And I am humbled, and honored to even be invited to the club.