“Would you like to see my business cards?” Mia said.
“Of course I do,” Karen smiled.
Mia proudly pulled two identical slips of paper, seemingly from nowhere, then slipped them into Karen’s hands. “Here you go,” she chirped.
Karen looked at the card, then read it out loud. “Mia Maria,” she looked down at my daughter, who is not and never has been named Mia. “Who is that?”
“Me,” she said, shaking her head, as if there existed no other possible answer.
“Oh?“ Karen raised her brows, “you made up a name for yourself?”
“No,” Mia shook her head. “My daddy did. He wants to protect my identity when I’m inside his stories.”
“Ah,” Karen nodded, then smiled even wider. “A lot of authors do that. It’s called a pseudonym.”
“I’m Mia Maria, %@#^& is Max, Daddy is Writer Dad, and Mommy’s Namas Daisy.”
I am by nature, both extrovert and exceedingly private. For the last three years daily life has been punctuated by a never ending procession of people, populating our porch and the preschool that Daisy and I designed together.
This morning marks a significant segue in our lives; a tectonic shift in the rhythm of days. As of sunrise, I am officially a writer. This isn’t to say I didn’t identify with the title during yesterday’s dawn, but now I am paddling at sea and it is high time to sink or swim. Daisy is now finishing out the final six weeks of preschool, while I turn my attention toward other endeavors.
This last Thursday, another door was opened, a portal I’ve wanted to walk through a while. I came out as Sean, the Monday after we sent our families a farewell, but I’ve still held half myself in a shroud.
I started Writer Dad in secrecy. The blog, I believed, would be a bit of an embarrassment. Of course I wanted an audience, but didn’t expect anything of merit or measure for maybe six months. Things have moved swiftly, and I’ve traveled in tandem. I am an honest writer, and though I know little of what I will say as the Earth twirls from one day to the next, I always know the words will come from inside, and that there will likely be at least a nugget or two, mined from a vein, a bit deeper than where I expected to dig.
I believe in open doors, honest writing, and playing with a straight hand. Those of you who are regulars to my thought, have seen a side of me that our families have not. They who knock on my door know me in a different way. They can place gesture with paragraph, and easily imagine the smiles behind my sentences. I am thrilled at last to find myself on the far side of a sigh. Being private has left me hesitant to have my thoughts hit the internet, chased so closely by a knock upon my door.
We told all of our clients about Writer Dad at the end of last week, with the anecdote above, and a link to go along with it. For the first time, Writer Dad in my life is common knowledge, and the winds of change will now flutter a different flag.
I still don’t know precisely what Writer Dad is, other than a tornado that twisted into my life, invited, to pull my nearest and dearest asunder, and take us toward the technicolor promise of Oz. One thing I do know, is that this is my podium. A place in the world to clear my throat and unleash my mind. I’ve never been more curious to find out what I have to say.
Writer Dad
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