Sunday, July 8, 2012
I try to be a writer. I tell people "I am a writer." I even have this nifty necklace that my oldest goddaughter gave me for Christmas to remind myself. I wear it to work sometimes and think "This is who I am. I'm just a legal secretary to pay the bills."
I watch my friends get published and I'm so happy for their success, but my inner five-year old is throwing a temper tantrum. Why can't I be there too?
Problem is, telling yourself that you're a writer is only a small part. Turns out you actually have to write, too. Butt in seat, fingers on keyboard, pen to paper. A promising first draft isn't enough. Neither is two-thirds of a draft with a kick-ass ending that's still trapped in your head.
Life is important, and sometimes it gets in the way of the butt-in-seat part. Then, other times, awesomely, life is driving home from work on a Friday afternoon, and you feel this nudging in your brain. Characters are talking to you. "Hey, remember us? You were totally going to finish up our story in June. We're into the first week of July. You gonna get on that anytime soon?" (And one of the characters punctuates that with a Da! because he's Russian.)
So okay, y'all. Butt is in seat. Words are being scribbled. I'm only going to be able to get a share in some success if I actually finish something I can share. So let's get on it.