I remember the first time I heard it.
“Wow, Amy, you’re a prolific writer.”
I was shooting for “good”. I so wanted to at least be good. I thought that I wasn’t great, but I was hoping that I was at least kinda sorta good. Or that I showed signs of being good. Like maybe I might have a chance at this authoring thing.
But no, I got “prolific”.
I rolled that word around in my head for days and weeks and months and years. Because I don’t obsess AT ALL.
Prolific. Prolific. Prolific.
It still sounded like a dirty word. A word that you call a no good writer who fills the world with page upon page of the garbage that fills their head. A writer insult.
I hear it from time to time, and it still brings me back to that first time I got called prolific. And…
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