A point in my writing where I have to buck up and believe that I actually have some talent, or throw in the towel completely. The thing is, I know that I have the talent. I know I have the determination to get where I want to be, but along the way you meet people that either boost you up, or knock you flat on your ass. We don't like to admit that we need the constant compliments or flattery, but really we do. What good is any of this if there aren't people out there that believe in what you're doing?
As anyone in any kind of artistic field knows, there are those that think it's a pipe dream, or as my husband likes to call it, "my hobby". And maybe right now it is a hobby because really I'm working hard at it but seeing little payoff. But again, that depends on what kind of payoff you expect. Are you looking for monetary payoffs? Because if that's the case, you might as well be looking somewhere else. Like the trash cans on the street and bins in apartment complexes and then make regular trips to the bottle depot, because honestly, you'll probably make more money that way. Although it's not nearly as much fun.
Or are you looking for the recognition? Someone out there to take notice of your efforts?
Writer or dumpster diver? I think I'll choose writer, even thought sometimes the idea of diving into a dumpster head first feels a little more realistic. More payoff for the effort.
And you get dirty. That's what makes it 'real' work right? I've spent my life with people that believed unless you get dirty, pull a muscle while on the job or shoot a nail through your foot with a nail gun, then you're not really working. Even though you bring home a paycheque, it's not really work.
Well you know what? Writers pull muscles all the time. Writers drive themselves into insanity, spend hours with bad people, chase criminals, kill people, search for a lost love one, tackle subjects not meant for the faint of heart. If a writer wants to drive a nail through the foot of someone, they can. And they can do it essentially unscathed. If they want to maim and dismember someone, they can, without fear of being held criminally responsible.
Gee, when I put it like that, it's probably better to be a writer. Writers can be anything they want to be and for as long as they want. A writer can be sexually deviant. A writer can experiment with poisons, can hand their heads out of a fast moving train or ride on the back of a donkey. They can explore made up worlds, meet unimaginable creatures, time travel...I can time travel if I want. Shit...and I can still dumpster dive if I really, really want to.
What could be better than that?
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
It's Tuesday...Again
High fevers, psychotic mommy's and men who collect hats. That's what my days have been full of for the last little while.
The hubby came home sick the other day and suffered all weekend. Yesterday, the little person seemed to contract whatever her daddy had because she spent the day with a fever and sleeping and it was a restless night to say the least. This morning there is still a fever though it does go down with each children's Tylenol I pump into her. Probably calls for a trip to the doctor but we'll see how she is in a couple of hours.
But amidst it all, I have written stories, submitted stories and now it's the 'hurry up and wait' we writers are so good at. I sent off a story Saturday. The one I have dubbed 'psycho mommy', dealing with the aftermath of postpartum psychosis. It was an interesting topic to write about, and a mentally draining subject to research. But the story came out fairly strong so for that, I am satisfied. Lets just hope someone else thinks so too.
And then there is the hat collector. Such an intriguing character. An old man telling a story of his childhood and dogs who eat Chiclets. Fun stuff. That one is still in the writing stage but it's coming along.
So all in all, I have 5 pieces of writing out there in the big wide world, trying to fend for themselves like the child I will let go of one day. And just like the disheveled mother...I really hope they don't come home, unless they really, really have to.
The hubby came home sick the other day and suffered all weekend. Yesterday, the little person seemed to contract whatever her daddy had because she spent the day with a fever and sleeping and it was a restless night to say the least. This morning there is still a fever though it does go down with each children's Tylenol I pump into her. Probably calls for a trip to the doctor but we'll see how she is in a couple of hours.
But amidst it all, I have written stories, submitted stories and now it's the 'hurry up and wait' we writers are so good at. I sent off a story Saturday. The one I have dubbed 'psycho mommy', dealing with the aftermath of postpartum psychosis. It was an interesting topic to write about, and a mentally draining subject to research. But the story came out fairly strong so for that, I am satisfied. Lets just hope someone else thinks so too.
And then there is the hat collector. Such an intriguing character. An old man telling a story of his childhood and dogs who eat Chiclets. Fun stuff. That one is still in the writing stage but it's coming along.
So all in all, I have 5 pieces of writing out there in the big wide world, trying to fend for themselves like the child I will let go of one day. And just like the disheveled mother...I really hope they don't come home, unless they really, really have to.
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