I was a writer, even when it was just quickly scribbled notes in edge-worn notebooks that I never thought anyone would read. Unattainable dreams of gracing Best Seller List’s; I know that writing will never pay the bills or skyrocket me to fame and fortune or Silver Screen deals, but I am a writer.
RP, role-play, that’s where I really got my start, it was my step out, the leap of faith. I told stories of voices that had until that time were only whispering voices at the back of my mind. Paranormal meets Jerry Springer on most days. There was a sense of awe that people read and liked the stories I had to tell. Writing is very much a compulsion with me, there’s no choice in whether I write or not, I crave it, like an addict. Writer’s block spirals me into a deep dark void, a head too silent that lets all the problems eat away at sanity. RP gave me the courage to throw my real life writing out there. People liked, some even loved, but I have a terminal case of inferiority, I don’t know if it’s a malady of just being a writer or not, but for me it’s a paralyzing fear.
When I started, I never imagined that I would end up here, two books contracted and on a Publisher’s Coming Soon list. It’s very surreal, hard to conceive that it’s happening. You email off a manuscript, settle in for weeks, maybe months of waiting, and obsessively check your email every day. Telling yourself that rejection or not, you took that step to put yourself out there. The arrival of acceptance and the grand prize contract to me still doesn’t feel real, when does it feel real? When the edits arrive or possibly the cover art?
Is it pessimism that makes me hold back the enthusiasm? To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t know the etiquette, or the line where promo becomes nothing but self-aggrandizing bullshit, I am merely a storyteller, I want my words to make someone feel, to see themselves within pages or screens filled with words that lets them know that it’s alright. No one suffers alone. There’s not a lot of flash, because for me if I can’t make someone feel, or laugh, then why did I spent days, week and sometimes months constructing a story for it to be simply read and not experienced.
I think I am a pretty friendly person, not exceptionally outgoing, a bit too much of a loner, as an only child and someone that prefers to live inside their head being out there is very difficult for me. Some writers/authors, well, they are social butterflies, and jealousy is my name. It very not me, but it has to be, I have to put my words out there, lay my soul bare for people to read and judge.
Two books, that’s the number I have contracted and I am waiting on edits and/or release dates, will it become more real and less of a dream when I know the exact date that the voices I created will have an audience? I have so many questions and things to learn, that only experience will answer, but again, being a loner and feeling separated from it all makes lessons learned harder to come by.
Well, one day, maybe after ten or twenty covers graced with my name, it will sink in that I am not just a writer, but also a published writer. Being a writer isn’t about royalty checks or bestseller badges, it’s about feeling as if you have found your place, your peace, and you feel complete. I haven’t found the completeness yet, maybe it will come and maybe not, but until then I am a Story Addict and I just have no choice.