A writer's lot is no more happy than a policeman's is, or was in those days. In fact, in many ways, I often think a writer has a harder time of it, especially in these times of e-books and self publishing. When I first started writing, computers were massive towers that hummed in cold basements of office buildings, televisions only had channels 2-13, vampires were to be feared, not loved, along with werewolves, dragons, and all other paranormal creatures of the night, and the only wizards that merited the world's attention either lived in Middle Earth or Oz.
I have always been in love with books and reading, and I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book in my hand. My parents always read to me before bed, and of course my grandparents never had to ask me what I wanted for a birthday/Christmas present, my answer was always the same-A book. I even think 'read' was one of my first words, and I taught myself how to do it myself when I was three years old.
Books have saved my life more times than I can count. They are my sanctuary and my solace, a soft place to fall and a place to go without leaving my house---a blessing for a borderline agoraphobic with minimal social skills, as I am sometimes. I joke that they are my friends and my comfort, things that only a true lover of words will ever understand.
So I suppose it's no surprise, that at the age of seven, I started writing. Poems, stories, and dare I say, even some elementary fan-fiction. I've been writing ever since. I feel as much peace when I'm writing as I do when I'm in church, or out walking somewhere beautiful.
Lately though, that peace and well being have ebbed a bit, alright, to be honest, a great deal, and this change seems to be concurrent to my decision to stop feeling guilty, and be a real writer. Which means, basically, since the reality of my life right now consists of waiting for the beginning of the month so I can pay the co-pay on my new depression meds, and then seeing if they will work so that I can be in position of actually feeling like I can look for a 'real job', the only thing I'm doing that has any semblance of work to it, is reading articles about writing, looking for magazines, and contests where I can submit my work, and then waiting to hear back, researching publishing houses, agents and how to write a good query letter, and what was that last thing?
Oh yeah, ACTUAL writing. So, I suppose, for lack of a better word, doing all that is my job right now.
Some days, doing this seems to have the same angst and frustration level as a couple who are trying to get pregnant would have, and I PRAY I don't offend anyone by saying that. The waiting, the failures, the rejections, seem to be all, somewhat the same. I'm pretty sure however, those couples eat better, sleep better, and at times enjoy their creative process more than I do.
Which makes me worry. Seeing how upset I get at each contest loss, each rejection letter, I wonder if I'm cut out to be a writer. I can understand, the longer I stick with it, why so many writers drank, self-medicated, had endless bouts of melancholy. Then again, even before I was writing seriously, F. Scott's "Dark Night of the Soul " and I were very well acquainted. In fact, it is during some of these black times that I am the most creative, and that I turn out the best work.
Rejections and being ignored do sting, but after pursuing writing, and ONLY writing(meaning not even thinking of doing something else) for six months, I am beginning to understand the people who say 'each no makes you try harder for a yes"
I have my days where I throw fits on twitter, where I rail at my friends over some other writer's success that I cannot understand, but when the shouting's done and the dust settles--(and I'm usually in tears), I take a deep breath and start over.
I love this work. I adore my muses. That's not going to change. Someday, maybe, someone will read my work and believe as I do-I was MEANT to be a writer.
Now, you'll excuse me ---crying again. :P
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