The only difference between a flower and a weed is judgment.
Judgment. It’s SO unimportant. People judge me all the time. Sometimes it’s my size. They say, “She’s so tiny.” Sometimes it’s my brain. “She doesn’t look very smart.” And sometimes it’s my breed. “Jack Russells are CRAZY.” Once, a big dog judged me and thought I was made of candy. He tried to EAT me up! None of this matters to me at all. People might think I’m a weed, but Mom thinks I’m a beautiful, sweet, cuddly flower. That’s what matters.
People judge Mom’s work all the time. She says, “It’s all part of being an author.” and “Writers write. That’s what we do.” and “Why are you so pretty?” After some kissing and hugging, she chases me away and goes back to work on her stories. She revises and reads and submits and writes and writes and writes.
She’s a flower, I mean a writer. That’s what she does.