The Audacity of Plans

We order the soft shell crab burgers with chilli mayo and fries and laugh because it's kind of hard to say "soft shell" quickly without sounding like Sean Connery. We're against the clock, which means we must focus, and I suppose that's helpful because it forces me to say the thing I'm afraid of. Embarrassed of. Shy about. I've got no business trying to do this thing I am so excited by, but she is kind to me, encouraging, tells me she wants to help. That she believes in me. That I am a storyteller, and I get to decide how each story is told, and if I want to stand on stage for this story, then that is okay. I can. I must.



I don't call myself a journalist, because I don't feel entitled to. I didn't train for years in newsrooms, don't know how magazines really work, or what it is to file copy several times a day. I don't call myself an "author", really, because my books aren't fiction, they're "just" about me. And so, I can't call myself an actress, since I'm not formally trained and there's a long way between me and The Academy.



When we go and stand in front of the theatre, though, the one we have our eye on - because we're a "we" now, another woman added to the team - she says: "That's where they'll sell your tickets," and it's my turn to believe her. I feel the wings of the butterflies brush against my belly. I know to not try will be worse than not daring at all. And so, as we part, I say: "I'm ready."