Now, my question to you, dear reader, is ... were I to write a book, a beautiful book, a writer's sight found and written down... would you read it? Would you really? Or do you sit there and laugh and say "oh me. Yet another online writer who fancies she can write a novel."
Which side of the discussion do you fall on? Those of you who have read this journal off and on for six years, and those of you who in the last year, month, week, have found me. Where do you fall in the opinion holding?
Ever since high school, going on twenty aught years now, I've been told by people that I am a great writer, a superb story teller. I set scene, tone, feeling, develop the character (even if it is just me making fun of myself) incredibly well.
I have been a lazy writer though, writing when it suits me instead of writing like my life depends on it. Like my friend Jadepark, I used to write impulsively, writing every detail, every thought, building phrase and tale and epic as I went... and I fell out of that a long time ago.
Some people who lose their sense of humor say "I lost my funny." Well, I lost my writey.
As of late though, the seed has been germinating. Perhaps it is a weed and a bad idea, to be plucked out and cast aside. Perhaps it is a really nice flower, unique in all the world... and needs to be put under a clear glass globe to protect it, except once in a while to let a butterfly in to visit it.
My friend, I'll just say his first name, like uttering a blessing... Eric... lived and worked doing what he loved vocationally. He was an artist, talented, wonderful, imaginative. And I'm jealous that he died as a result of this lifestyle. He did what he loved, and unfortunately the by-product of what he did was cancer.
he lived and lived and lived and worked and produced and made and created. And my envy in the aftermath of his passing... grows.
Eric's death is the kick in the ass my quill needs. If quills have asses.
I don't live and breathe and exist for my work. My job is a job. It is a place to go where they give me money. And that is great.
I do a good job at what I do. No one likes doing what I do. Which is good, because that means I can keep showing up and doing it. No one is trying to jockey for position to steal my throne.
It is safe, reliable, there... It is difficult and sometimes frustrating... but when I walk away at the end of the day, I walk away. I don't THINK, obsess, breathe, toss in my sleep because I want to get back to it. I cannot WAIT to get back to doing it again. I know I'll get back to it the next day and I sleep fitfully... and I go in... and push the Boulder up the Hill again.
I constantly tell my Boss, the lovely G, that I am like Sisyphus. I push a bigassed rock up a bigassed hill for all eternity. Bigassed rock rolls down. I get up, push it up bigassed hill again... Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
This is a job. This is not love. It is what it is, and I am incredibly thankful for it. Do not get me wrong. To be honest, I'm lost without it...
but I miss passion when it comes to life. Not sex passion, ya pervert... but life-fulfilling passion. I have a great life, a great husband, spectacular kids, a super house. But... I am not doing and being to my utmost. And that is so painfully clear.
I'm not quitting my job. But ... I am going to dedicate the time to doing something for me that hopefully will be something for you.
For a very long time, I've nursed an outline for a novel. Shelved in the back of my mind were some characters, and their situation and adventures, and their concept ... and they all needed to grow up with me to get to this point in my own life in order for the story line to just be clear. And yesterday afternoon it clicked and I knew where to go with it, where to finish it, and how it all comes together.
I put the outline down on paper and shared it with two people I trust -- my sister, because she is my muse, and Amy because she knows bad art when she sees it and I know she'll be honest with me.
When Amy hates a movie, she's right. When Amy reads a book and says "feh..." she's right. But when she reads or hears or sees something, she knows when it eats your soul and says YES to you... and I want to write something that she'll say YES back to. I told Amy about this over lunch a few months ago, and she was open to hearing more. I asked her if she'd read it, and she said yes.
So I started with the outline. My sister read it and immediately wanted details on the "blanks." Because an outline isn't very detailed... it lines up what will happen, in order, and then I will fill in the details around it (I didn't learn to write that way until college, but wish someone had taught me that, even from a research paper perspective, long long before...), she wanted to know WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!
Why is this person doing this? How did she end up there? What was she thinking?.... all sorts of questions were pouring out of her. I answered her, because I already KNOW. So it was easy to come back to her and say "Good question -- here is why..."
And I knew she was hooked.
But I can't just write a novel for two people. I've never done anything like Nanowrimo in November, because I didn't want to put my novel up there and have it lifted, borrowed, creatively appropriated. I write these journal entries and they are the longest pieces I write. Seeing as most people write a paragraph with links out to other sources, I know for a long time that like Jadepark, I am still a writer. And will be again. But I need you to promise me you'll read it.
And advice -- is always welcome. Email or comments. Up there on the left navigation bar... you know what to do.