It is April. I am in Brussels at the Midi Train Station. Transitioning from Amsterdam to London.

I step up to the British Customs Agent.  He is the fourth customs agent I have been in front in the last five days.  The second today.

He asks me a question no one has yet to ask me.

“What do you do.”

I stare blankly at him.  Is this a trick question?

I swallow.

“I am a writer.”

He does a double take.  Looks down at my passport.  Looks up at me.

He raises his eyebrows.


The critic in my head begins.  “Who do you think you are?  Who do you think you’re fooling? Do you think you can get away with lying to this official?”

I shush her.

I allow my heart to answer him.

“Yes.  I am a writer.”

And I smile.

And he smiles back.

“I hope London inspires you.”

I thank him.  And I walk away to join JB.

And I know that I won’t allow the critic in my head to quiet the still voice of my heart.  For I have announced to the world, that I am a writer.