Being an American

A French classmate, with whom I reconnected online a few years ago, told me that she was curious to know what makes me an American woman.
I know I’m not really one, at least when I speak, since people catch an accent.
But I already wrote that I’m not really French either, since the French catch a je ne sais quoi that points at a life abroad.
Yet, today as I met with one of my friends, a children’s book author, I realized I was really an American. 
We discussed e-book publishing and marketing ideas for her book and her future books as well as mine. We shared ideas and spent a couple of hours browsing the web and jotting down our ideas.
It is a new territory out there for writers and publishers alike, and if things are a little sketchy between e-publishing and print publishing, if we are all nostalgic of bookshops and grieve over their disappearance, we are also 100% aware that the new publishing tools are here to last.
So instead of lamenting, my friend and I faced reality.
Although we don’t exactly know how we are going to jump, we know we will. 
Although we don’t know if we will embark alone or if more of our friends will join us, we know we will enjoy the ride. 
Although we don’t know if we will succeed, we know we will try.
And that, I will tell my French friend, is being an American.

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