Usually I'm not one for feeling overly intimidated. At least not in my day job. At least not anymore. Heck, last week I cut a human out of another human, which I have to admit never gets old. (And mother and baby are doing just fine. Baby has a massive shock of black hair that sticks straight up in every direction. So stinkin' cute. All my babies are cute. And if they're not, there's always something nice to say, like "Would you just look at that little nose" or "Those are some big feet" or "What a cute bald head" -- even if they come out looking like a squished lizard, one should always say something nice. But I digress.)
So I've faced life and death, cried with folks in joy and sorrow, laughed at the insanity of life and medicine. I've pulled diagnoses out of places where the sun doesn't shine to come up with esoteria like "leukocyte adhesion deficiency" or "pityriasis versicolor" (got that one today) or "gamekeeper's thumb" (today, too -- I was busy) or "bicornuate uterus" (yup, today, it was nuts in the office) -- which by the way, if you didn't know, bicornuate uterus is not nearly as cool as "uterus didelphys" because what's more awesome than 1 uterus+cervix? How about TWO? Like, which one do you do the PAP smear on or check for dilation? Or, even better, what if, in a small town in Appalachia, you start seeing folks that don't have a cervix? (true experience) Faster than you can say "A Fish Called Wanda," boom, you've got your own pocket (no pun intended) of testicular feminization.
Again, I digress. It's been a heckuva day.
Ok, then. Decent at the whole medicine thing. But this writing thing? It's pretty intimidating, which I haven't really felt since being pimped on surgery rounds a million years ago. ("Pimped" is not a hooker word, it's a student/intern/resident make-you-look-stupid word.) Like the two contests I have "finaled" in. I worked my ample keister off getting those manuscripts polished up as shiny as possible. But then paranoia sets in. I look on the finalist list and see the same name alongside mine. And then I look back to other contests and see that same name. Over and over again. Often winning.
Now, please understand, I do not know who the author Jennifer Hover is. I have zero beef with Ms. Hover, and it's very likely that she is the nicest person on Earth, probably tats her children's clothes, makes origami in her spare time, reads to the blind, grows her own heirloom vegetables, bakes homemade bread, rescues puppies, all while writing volumes of awesome paranormal romance. As a matter of fact, karma being what it is, I'm nearly certain Ms. Hover is all this and probably a size 4 uber cool chick with permanently awesome hair who also guides the Dahli Lama to eternal enlightenment, all just because I'm a super dork. And yeah, I'll say it, there's a little green eyed monster going on here. But seeing that name over and over just works on a girl. I'm like, ok, this Hover chick has won stuff for the past I-don't-know-how-many years. So my chances are….zilch? Sure, I tell patients all the time that "There is always hope." So I get the gist of that sentiment. But realistically here in this literary situation? Nuh uh.
So, then, there's nothing to do but keep plodding along, writing the stuff that rolls around in my head, even though "paranormal doesn't sell" (tell that to my Amazon account, ha). That's cool. But in the interest of public safety, it's never a good idea for me ever to be bored. Ever. Therefore, it's back to writing more stories, spinning more tales. And -- even if it's just for my own amusement -- peppering the tomes with obscure medical factoids and flavors. Just because it makes me happy. And maybe one day, it'll make someone else happy. Or at least give them something to help win a game of trivial pursuit. Either way, it's a win.
Author, daydreamer, and practitioner of trying very hard to duct tape folks together and help when I can.
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