Writer Eileen Burmeister works in communications for a hospital in the northwestern U.S.; she writes an occasional column, "Cries From the Wilderness," in Speechwriter's Newsletter's sister publication, The Ragan Report.

Thinking her latest effort would resonate with speechwriters, I appropriated it for this blog:

At Your Service
My three-year-old just saw Cinderella for the first time, forever altering life as I've known it. In a wave of the Fairy Godmother's wand I have instantly become my daughter's lackey. Each morning, she descends the stairs in her Cinderella nightgown and directs, "Mommy, I be Cinderella and you be the mice." At this point, I am expected to sing in a high-pitched mousy voice "Cinderelly, Cinderelly…" until my ears hurt and the neighbor's dog is pawing at our screen door.

While performing this ritual with my three-year-old daughter, I was startled by the realization that my job as a communicator is not unlike my job as Cinderella's mice. Simply put, we in the communications business are to make our bosses look and sound good. I am called to be an adoring little mouse on the sidelines, watching him go to the ball in the dress that I made with my own two paws. (Let me clarify that he doesn't really wear dresses. Just keeping with the analogy.)

Recently, I was talking to a coworker who didn't realize that I am responsible for much of what our CEO sends out to employees. She went on and on about how she appreciates all that he says in his letters, how clearly he understands our struggles, and how she loves his sense of humor. It took every fiber in my being not to yell, "He's funny because I make him that way!" But that's not my job. I signed on to write his letters, his press releases and his speeches. If I wanted the glory (and the headaches) he deals with every day, I certainly would have never majored in English.

No, I chose to be a writer because I love to write. So I continue to write, to feel, to understand and to listen to employees. And, when necessary, I can spin a harsh reality into something a little more pleasant. Just like Cinderella's mice.

Still, I'd like to be recognized once in a while. Maybe a little word of appreciation from an admiring reader…a note from the CEO telling me how much he appreciates my work…a Booker Award… But before these delusions of grandeur take hold my daughter comes into the room, looks me dead in the eye and states, "Mommy, you just a simple girl."

Indeed.