Monday, November 6, 2006


Seems my mind has been doing a little thinking all by her own sweet self. Having adventures without sunscreen, mosquito repellent or clean underwear. Tripping over tree branches and falling down rabbit holes.

Sometimes I write things I like. Sometimes I write things I'm proud of. Sometimes I write things I would quote. A few days ago I discovered a secret I'd been keeping.
Apparently I want to be a writer.
Who knew?

I want it all - the misery and the hard work and the constant fear of rejection and the constant rejection, too. I want to be published. I want to write stories. I don't want to be a columnist or a journalist or an essayist or anything respectable. I want to be (oh, dare I say it) a novelist. I want to write fiction. Stories. I don't care about the news and I don't care about the world, and I want to write stories. And I want to write tall tales about real people I know and real things that happened. Fiction and creative non-fiction.
I don't care if the things I write are terrible literature and will be forgotten the day after anyone reads them. I want to write stories that are fun and entertaining. I want to be the candyfloss at the fair.

That's what I want. What do I think? I think there is so much better writing out there that I cannot even compare, and that it will be years before I go anywhere; but for the very first time in my life, I am not going to let the fear of being mediocre and forgettable and unworthy stop me before I start.

And I thought I didn't want to tread the beaten path?

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