I write for a living, but somehow I separate that writing, which is mainly car reviews and articles on demand, from writing I do here in my blog, or any kind of fiction. I’m technically a working writer, but I think of myself as a marketing professional, because otherwise, otherwise I’d feel like a hack, or that I’ve sold my soul.
Strangely, doing paid posts in my blog does not make me feel like that. Possibly it’s because I choose the topics, and the money is “found” money – extra cash to pay for stuff like my perfume habit or pedicures, or the vast collection of blank note cards with pretty pictures that I’ve acquired. (I have a “thing” for note cards.)
Truly, however, when I think I’ve writing, I think of Jo March in her garret, with her special black hair bow, ink stained fingers, and baskets of apples, and even though I don’t have a garret, and my 2nd-floor home office overlooks the treetops and the pool, I try to channel that mood, that sense of place and purpose, when I’m working on writing I actually care about.
My dream, from the time I was eight years old and wrote a bit of bad poetry (well, it was good for an eight-year-old, I suppose) about it, has been to publish fiction. I now have a vast body of work circulating on the ‘net, but it’s all the work stuff I mentioned before, and much of it isn’t attributed directly to me. I’ve published some essays and creative non-fiction in literary magazines and e-zines, and I’ve succumbed to the pull of fanfic and posted some of that both to my fiction blog at MoonChilde.com, and at fanfiction.net.
I’m working on a series of cafe fiction, as well. That’s my baby right now, but while snippets of it ARE available on the ‘net at UniversalBlend.net, I haven’t really made a point of asking for feedback on it. The few trusted friends who’ve read it say it’s good, but I can’t get myself to believe in myself enough to DO anything with it, and while I know you don’t have to have a finished work to query agents, just sample chapters, I’m terrified of doing so.
Pink hair has made me braver on stage, but I can’t find the courage to do anything with the one thing I love more than any other: writing.
I wish I could.
From: Sunday Scribblings