The Author I Used to Be

Cassie McClure
Sat, 21 Feb 2026 23:00:00 -0800
Lifestyle

When you publish a column each week, you rarely imagine that one day someone will ask you to stand in a quiet library and account for all of it. Columns are written in response to motion. You build a shape with 800 words around it before the next deadline arrives. The work feels immediate, but somewhat temporal.

Then my syndicate decided to put my columns in a book and my local library asked me to give a talk.

Preparing for the talk, I found myself less interested in the stories in the columns than the voice of a different person. I wondered about the woman who wrote those columns. I extended both admiration and grace. She thought that a well-turned paragraph written quickly could tilt a public conversation.
Updated: Sun Feb 22, 2026

When you publish a column each week, you rarely imagine that one day someone will ask you to stand in a quiet library and account for all of it. Columns are written in response to motion. You build a shape with 800 words around it before the next deadline arrives. The work feels immediate, but somewhat temporal.

Then my syndicate decided to put my columns in a book and my local library asked me to give a talk.

Preparing for the talk, I found myself less interested in the stories in the columns than the voice of a different person. I wondered about the woman who wrote those columns. I extended both admiration and grace. She thought that a well-turned paragraph written quickly could tilt a public conversation.

Weekly writing rewards a rhythm when tight deadlines compress doubt and a fevered velocity of tapping a keyboard begins to feel like authority. Reading those earlier pieces, I recognized the energy immediately.

What startled me, too, in the reading was not the content but the distance. The years between those essays and the present have been filled with meetings, negotiations, private conversations that never become columns, and the lived consequences of ideas that once felt theoretical. Experience complicates the declarative sentence and it replaces analysis at a distance with accountability up close.

Simply, it is easier to diagnose a system than to inhabit it.

That truth lingered with me as I stood at the podium. The earlier writer could sharpen her critique without worrying how it would echo in a council chamber or across a neighborhood. She was not wrong. She was earlier in the story. Her confidence came from a vantage point that allowed for clarity without consequence.

For a moment, I mistook the difference for decline. The earlier columns had a different voice where my current one feels slower, more deliberate, less interested in winning a paragraph. I wondered whether I had grown lazier, less disciplined, less sharp.

But actively living inside the very systems you once analyzed changes your posture. The abstract gains a face. A clean argument gains history. The urgency that once propelled every sentence gives way to patience that does not photograph as well but often carries more weight.

The audience in the library did not need the sharpest version of me. They needed context. They needed to hear how time alters perspective. As I spoke about community, family, culture, and generation, I realized the book is not a monument to certainty. It shows a writer learning in public.

Writers are often told to guard their voice as though it were fixed. In truth, a voice matures the way a person does. The heat of earlier conviction can cool into steadiness. A quick answer can give way to the harder work of living inside complexity. There's a shift that can resemble hesitation when compared to youthful urgency, but it can also signal responsibility.

Leaving the library, I felt the weight of having stayed in the conversation long enough for it to change me. The columns in that book captured who I was when speed felt like power. Now, the person writing in the present understands that patience through time has its own authority.