I can check another lifetime goal off my list
I met Rick Reilly tonight. You may recall that Sports Illustrated's back page columnist is my favorite sports writer. He did a book talk and signing at Changing Hands (are we seeing a theme here?) and of course I was there with my cutest $4 Target shirt on (the man is newly divorced, you know). His talk (more like a stand-up schtick) covered everything from Charles Barkley's bald head to Lance Armstrong's lone nut, to the fact that Pistons fans write their hate mail in crayon "because that's all they have access to in the home." We also got him to promise to strip naked, bathe himself in tuna fish and jump in Shamu's tank, should the Arizona Cardinals make it to even one playoff game this season.
My mom was in front of me in line to have him sign her book, and when I stepped forward to hand him my book, she told him, "This is my daughter and she's grown up reading you. She's a writer, too!" Telling Rick Reilly that I was a writer was like telling Paul McCartney that I won a song-writing contest in third grade. I wanted to die. And then I felt about 13 years old for being embarrassed because of something my mother said. But I am NOT a writer! It may have been what pulled me into journalism, but writing is what nearly drove me out of journalism. (Writing for the blog is different...way different. I don't have to interview people or fact-chect — I mean, you all know that 74.6% of what you find on the Internet is untrue anyway, right?) I design. It's what I do, it's what I love and it's what kept me in journalism. I may not get a byline beside each page I lay out, and most people think of far-out illustrations when they see my business card calling me a "graphic designer," but I'm getting used to the fact that what I do is often misinterpreted. Just don't call me a writer.