My dream house is up for sale. Anyone have an extra $30,000 they'd let me borrow? I promise I would pay it back eventually. *g*
It has been put up for sale one year too early for me to buy it. Grrrrrr.
I've been debating on and off whether or not to make this post. Off, because of you-know-who and the fact that he does still read this sometimes. On, because, dammit, this is my journal, and I can post what I want about what I want, and damn the torpedoes, if you get my drift.
Laura J. Underwood calls hers the IMPoster. I don't tend to call mine anything, or give it an identity other than that little voice that lives in the back of my head that occassionally tells me that I'm the imposter, that the stuff I write about here (writing-related, of course) doesn't really exist. That no matter how hard I try or how many times I get published, I will never be 'fit' to consider myself a real writer.
When that voice speaks up, I know exactly how Pinnochio felt in his desire to become "a real boy at last!"
At what point does one become a 'real' writer, I wonder? When people you don't know consider you part of some secret club? Is money the only consideration? Or, perhaps, national exposure? Or maybe it's when you write something, read it over, and realize that you've written something up to your own very exacting standards, and can feel a sense of accomplishment because of it?
It's the journey that's important, after all, not the destination. Right? If I were suddenly to magically get everything I have ever wished or dreamed for, then what would happen? What would fuel my desires? My dreams?
What would happen if I reached the end of that particular journey?
And I know, no journey truly ends. The goal we set in the beginning may change drastically by the time we get there--if we ever get there. By the time we're well on our way, we might not want to get there. And is it so bad to continuously be on a journey? To continuously reach for some goal or another? To continuously live?
I think, perhaps, that once we get complacent, we cease to live. That once we get into a rut, we dig ourselves deeper and deeper until we begin to believe that there is no escape. And that's when we stop. And that's when we begin to die.
This is an interesting journal entry. It reinforced some of the ideas that have been lurking in the back of my head for a while now. And just to show you all that I haven't wandered off-topic, here's the original thought that led up to this post:
When I graduated from high school way back when, I gave myself a goal. It seemed, at the time, that I had plenty of time to get this goal accomplished, even though I had no real idea how to go about accomplishing that goal.
The goal was to be able to write full-time by the time I turned 30.
Which is in a little less than two months.
Twelve years after I gave myself that goal to reach, I've learned quite a bit. I've learned about sharks, and scams, and all the perils of publishing (okay, maybe not all the perils, but most of them.) I've learned more than I can write in the time I have here about writing, and revising, and critiquing, and networking (something I'm still no good at.) I've learned and listened and screwed up and fallen and climbed back onto my feet.
Twelve years ago, if I remember correctly, I was working on an early draft of Stoneshards. (Still unfinished.) I was getting ready for the craft show, and I was sitting out on top of the outside doors to the basement (something I wouldn't dare do now, incidently) making wreaths out of honeysuckle vine. If memory serves me correctly, I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and maybe a flannel shirt or a sweater. I don't remember the shoes, though.
I gave myself this goal without knowing how to even begin to accomplish it. All I had behind me was four years of serious writing (meaning, I was serious about writing, and wrote every day.)
Twelve years later--and I swear, sometimes it feels like it's only been a year or so--I sit here at the computer (something that wasn't even on my radar in '92) writing this in a blog (a word that hadn't even been invented in '92) with over forty novels under my belt (no wonder I need to lose weight *g*) and a couple of short stories, still...
I have not, and will not, reach that original goal by the time I am 30.
But you know what? I'm not disappointed.
I am happy that the very first novel I submitted to a publisher got rejected. Why? Because things would have changed, and things would have been a lot different. I wouldn't be the same person that I am now. My writing would not be the same, either. (I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume it would be worse. Or that some cool ideas I have written about would not have been written about.)
I am happy that I waited until 2001 to start submitting seriously. Why? Because that gave me nine years to learn and not have to worry about rejection from total strangers. That gave me time to perfect my 'voice' and gather up my courage. And time to build up an immunity to that little voice in the back of my brain.
I am happy that--since 2001--I have had a steady stream of acceptances. Nine novels. Three novellas. One article in AntiqueWeek. Before that, one short story and one long poem in '98.
I am happy that I have discovered great friends and wonderful acquaintances on this creation called the internet. I am happy that there are so many publishing opportunities out there for everyone.
I am happy that I don't have to go to the local chain bookstore (we don't have independents aroud here) to buy a good book to read.
I am happy that I've learned to knit. And crochet. And that my dayjob pays enough money for me to be able to buy a house, pay off all my credit cards, and keep me well-stocked in yarn.
I am happy that I can concentrate on telling a good story--and then revising the story to make it better, if not great--without having to worry about paying the rent.
I am happy that I don't have to avoid answering the phones, because creditors aren't calling me because of overdue payments or whatnot.
I am pleased that I receive a tiny bit of fanmail. (Also embarrassed, but that's just me.)
I love this journey of mine. Every day I learn something new (Today I learned that my nice and wonderful reader and commentator of Nightshade, Sherwood Smith, has a livejournal.)
That little voice in the back of my head can go suck rotten eggs.
Because I've realized something. The destination's really not as important as the journey. And I'm already a real writer. I've always been a real writer.
I will stop being a real writer when I stop enjoying my journey. And although I don't enjoy every single second of every single day, the good still outweighs the bad.
Onward. I have things to do, characters to torture, and a scarf to finish. Scarecrows is going quite well.
It has been put up for sale one year too early for me to buy it. Grrrrrr.
I've been debating on and off whether or not to make this post. Off, because of you-know-who and the fact that he does still read this sometimes. On, because, dammit, this is my journal, and I can post what I want about what I want, and damn the torpedoes, if you get my drift.
Laura J. Underwood calls hers the IMPoster. I don't tend to call mine anything, or give it an identity other than that little voice that lives in the back of my head that occassionally tells me that I'm the imposter, that the stuff I write about here (writing-related, of course) doesn't really exist. That no matter how hard I try or how many times I get published, I will never be 'fit' to consider myself a real writer.
When that voice speaks up, I know exactly how Pinnochio felt in his desire to become "a real boy at last!"
At what point does one become a 'real' writer, I wonder? When people you don't know consider you part of some secret club? Is money the only consideration? Or, perhaps, national exposure? Or maybe it's when you write something, read it over, and realize that you've written something up to your own very exacting standards, and can feel a sense of accomplishment because of it?
It's the journey that's important, after all, not the destination. Right? If I were suddenly to magically get everything I have ever wished or dreamed for, then what would happen? What would fuel my desires? My dreams?
What would happen if I reached the end of that particular journey?
And I know, no journey truly ends. The goal we set in the beginning may change drastically by the time we get there--if we ever get there. By the time we're well on our way, we might not want to get there. And is it so bad to continuously be on a journey? To continuously reach for some goal or another? To continuously live?
I think, perhaps, that once we get complacent, we cease to live. That once we get into a rut, we dig ourselves deeper and deeper until we begin to believe that there is no escape. And that's when we stop. And that's when we begin to die.
This is an interesting journal entry. It reinforced some of the ideas that have been lurking in the back of my head for a while now. And just to show you all that I haven't wandered off-topic, here's the original thought that led up to this post:
When I graduated from high school way back when, I gave myself a goal. It seemed, at the time, that I had plenty of time to get this goal accomplished, even though I had no real idea how to go about accomplishing that goal.
The goal was to be able to write full-time by the time I turned 30.
Which is in a little less than two months.
Twelve years after I gave myself that goal to reach, I've learned quite a bit. I've learned about sharks, and scams, and all the perils of publishing (okay, maybe not all the perils, but most of them.) I've learned more than I can write in the time I have here about writing, and revising, and critiquing, and networking (something I'm still no good at.) I've learned and listened and screwed up and fallen and climbed back onto my feet.
Twelve years ago, if I remember correctly, I was working on an early draft of Stoneshards. (Still unfinished.) I was getting ready for the craft show, and I was sitting out on top of the outside doors to the basement (something I wouldn't dare do now, incidently) making wreaths out of honeysuckle vine. If memory serves me correctly, I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and maybe a flannel shirt or a sweater. I don't remember the shoes, though.
I gave myself this goal without knowing how to even begin to accomplish it. All I had behind me was four years of serious writing (meaning, I was serious about writing, and wrote every day.)
Twelve years later--and I swear, sometimes it feels like it's only been a year or so--I sit here at the computer (something that wasn't even on my radar in '92) writing this in a blog (a word that hadn't even been invented in '92) with over forty novels under my belt (no wonder I need to lose weight *g*) and a couple of short stories, still...
I have not, and will not, reach that original goal by the time I am 30.
But you know what? I'm not disappointed.
I am happy that the very first novel I submitted to a publisher got rejected. Why? Because things would have changed, and things would have been a lot different. I wouldn't be the same person that I am now. My writing would not be the same, either. (I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume it would be worse. Or that some cool ideas I have written about would not have been written about.)
I am happy that I waited until 2001 to start submitting seriously. Why? Because that gave me nine years to learn and not have to worry about rejection from total strangers. That gave me time to perfect my 'voice' and gather up my courage. And time to build up an immunity to that little voice in the back of my brain.
I am happy that--since 2001--I have had a steady stream of acceptances. Nine novels. Three novellas. One article in AntiqueWeek. Before that, one short story and one long poem in '98.
I am happy that I have discovered great friends and wonderful acquaintances on this creation called the internet. I am happy that there are so many publishing opportunities out there for everyone.
I am happy that I don't have to go to the local chain bookstore (we don't have independents aroud here) to buy a good book to read.
I am happy that I've learned to knit. And crochet. And that my dayjob pays enough money for me to be able to buy a house, pay off all my credit cards, and keep me well-stocked in yarn.
I am happy that I can concentrate on telling a good story--and then revising the story to make it better, if not great--without having to worry about paying the rent.
I am happy that I don't have to avoid answering the phones, because creditors aren't calling me because of overdue payments or whatnot.
I am pleased that I receive a tiny bit of fanmail. (Also embarrassed, but that's just me.)
I love this journey of mine. Every day I learn something new (Today I learned that my nice and wonderful reader and commentator of Nightshade, Sherwood Smith, has a livejournal.)
That little voice in the back of my head can go suck rotten eggs.
Because I've realized something. The destination's really not as important as the journey. And I'm already a real writer. I've always been a real writer.
I will stop being a real writer when I stop enjoying my journey. And although I don't enjoy every single second of every single day, the good still outweighs the bad.
Onward. I have things to do, characters to torture, and a scarf to finish. Scarecrows is going quite well.
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