I held the square of home-laminated paper in my pinchers. On its surface . . . A silhouette of a woman. Head tilted to a typewriter. Wisps of hair splaying over her shoulders. A delicate hand reaching out to feed the page. The other poised and ready to fire as soon as the paper met its place. Shoulders slightly hunched. Mouth gapped open to catch a breath before the final stretch toward a deadline. Glasses. By any and all guesses she was a writer. Why do clipart writers wear glasses? Why do glasses connote book worm? Librarian? Accountant? Why do all of the above imply an element of nerdy-ness? Too many hours face-planting the screen perhaps. Weakened retinas from reading in dim light. Painstaking attention to grammar. Barf. Was I as stereotypical as this two-dimensional clipart? I had great eyesight. No glasses required. Loved cats. Spent lots of time alone. Definitely clocked face-planting sagas with my MacBook Pro. Regularly chose books over human interaction. Quirky without a doubt. Ditch the glasses and I was it . For once it felt good to be so much of what the world called, a Writer.