It’s A Lot Easier to Dream About Being a Writer Than Being One. I should know. The upside in not being a writer, even though that’s all I have dreamed about for most of my life, is that I get to write when I want. Lack of productivity won’t get editors and publishers cranky.
In my pursuit of wanting to be a writer, I have seen evidence of how a writer lives to become successful and sometimes prolific. Is that what profiling is?
From my own experience in becoming proficient in something, coupled with advice from writers, I knew I had to write every day.
It took me several years of writing in streaks. My goal was to journal every day. Kept it positive. Kept the goals. New months were a chance to redeem or celebrate. New Years were chances to shoot for the moon and not miss a day.
I studied my writing patterns. Were there some months that I didn’t write more than others? Activities?
Earlier today I was trying to read my journal from 1984. Some of the ink has faded. Some of it just isn’t coherent on the part of the writer. But there are pieces of a boat trip I took with my dad. I can’t quite go there in my mind. My goal as I become a writer will be to focus on more detail and description so that when I go back and read it or if someone else by chance reads it, they will feel like they were on the boat with me and my dad by in 1984.
There have been so many times I crave being a writer. I imagine that it’s like catching a story-line that acts a fish and accelerate in the opposite direction. It’s amazing the pull that a pound of adrenalin can do. I’ve been knocked on my butt from fish barely long enough to keep. Come to think of it, I don’t know if fish have adrenalin. Can flight or frenzied flailing be just instinct? That will have to be looked at in a one of my daily blogs.
Most of the time I’m the writer is flailing about like a fish out of water. Here another summer has passed and another summer of only journaling and blogging and emailing and facebooking.
I bend my head in shame as I scold myself for not becoming a writer over the summer days. For not publishing. For not getting paid. For not writing because I have to more than I want to.
Lately I’ve been hearing a different voice in my head that whoever sold me the stock that says writers are only writers because they are paid and widely read was probably someone who wanted to be a writer, but never wrote anything. I’ve heard this many times.
Sunday I leave for Rockaway Beach on the coast celebrate the new voice in my head. I write so I must be a writer. (Now my mind is doing somersaults trying to figure out if it should be I write, so I must be a writer. My FANBOY rule isn’t helping me out…)
In a way, I envision this writing retreat, held by my good friend Lori Lake, who is really a real writer, as an amazing opportunity. A new beginning. A rebirthing kind of thing.
So now what? If I have become the writer I have always wanted to be. What’s my next What?