Yesterday, two people asked about my writing. The first was a previous student. While the second was a woman I’ve conversed with on multiple occasions, I didn’t know her name. “How’s your writing these days?” she asked.

I paused. How is my writing?

I’m working on a collection of essays and while I had a recent breakthrough in the book’s structure, I’m still very much in the trenches.

“How’s your writing, Melissa?” my student asked.

“It’s okay. Not bad.” In my mind, I saw the manilla folders, the two floppy legal pads, my trusty laptop that I worry every time I boot up will be its last.

I’m not used to others asking about my writing. There are plenty of authors who are superstitious and refuse to talk about their works-in-progress, believing that it taints the process in some way. But as I walked away after being asked twice that day about my work, I couldn’t help but feel a small throb within. I am writing. I am a writer. Tell them, folks.