You know you’re a writer when:

You vacillate between thinking your poop doesn’t smell, and wondering why you ever thought you were clever.

You put off running to Wal-Mart for your meds, because you just thought up the perfect ending for your blog, chapter, article, or Advanced Directive. (The doctors love a good laugh before they pull the plug.)

You have nightmares about not backing up your hard drive. They usually involve rabbits, tequila, and a phallic symbol.

You forget to eat, shower, and go to the bathroom when you’re writing. Even flies give you a wide berth.

Personally, words don’t just flow naturally from my brain to my laptop. Writers talk about having a fire in the belly, compelling them to write. I call that heartburn. I’m chewing a Tums as I write this.

I’ve been looking at a lot of other people’s blogs lately. They make it seem so effortless. I hesitate to admit that writing is hard, lest anyone think that I am not the real deal. But there you have it: my allotment of insecurity for the day.

Go ahead and ooh and aah and be impressed with my vulnerability in putting my doubts into words. It’s all part of my master plan for world domination. Every writer worth his salt has a master plan. Most of us are egomaniacs with an inferiority complex. We are a dichotomy, an enigma, and other writery words.

Through it all, writers maintain a tenuous grip on sanity. Rarely do we feel the urge to gouge our eyes out with a Chapstick while waiting in the quick check aisle. Exceptions include but are not limited to Rhonda Gorst’s 32 expired coupons for Cup ‘O Noodles. Why do you think they put Chapstick in the quick check aisle? The point is that you can tell my psychiatrist that I am not a danger to myself or others.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run to Wal-Mart for my meds, before I start dancing in the neighbor’s geraniums … again.