Now here’s a surprise.

As a writer who, with all humility, admits to a lack of humility under the right circumstance…a shy person who in no way seems to be one…I am endowed with a generous helping of ham.

I have no problem reading my work to myself with all the emotion befitting a books-on-tape narrator (I’d love to do that). I have absolutely no problem reading passages—or entire chapters—aloud to friends (although I must be urged to do so.)

I DO have a problem writing about myself.

That seems counter-intuitive, I know, in a woman who writes a blog as disclosing as this one. And yet, that reticence reared its multiple heads last night as I was trying to put together the content for The Spiritkeeper’s website.

“Bragging on myself” they call it down South. A most ick-making trait. In creating the site copy, the writer is put solidly in a position of having to inflate the book’s best traits to the dimensions of, oh, a dirigible. Writing about the story itself…bad enough. Writing about how great it is (although I do hope that is true): I like that less. And writing about myself…I like that not at all.

I had the same problem with the dustjacket copy for Book 1. Writing about the story was easy. Packing it full of persuasive superlatives…that was just plain painful. “Couldn’t someone else do that part?” I whined. The answer was no. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I’m trying to suck up my anxieties about it; write about the book with all the heartfelt joy and fascination that I feel for it as a reader. Tough task.

Do other writers feel this, I wonder? Famous ones? Un-famous ones? The worst part is that this Cult of Me Me Me Me Me has one member. And the voice she uses to tout her own gloriousness echoes with hollow mockery in the empty clubhouse room.

Message to self: Get over yourself.

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