Am I a Writer?

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WHAT MAKES ME A WRITER?

I am a writer! I guess I have always been a writer, or at least that is the excuse for the boxes of leather bound, hard bound, and moleskin journals that I have collected. These journals are filled with words, and every once in a while I will flip through these journals and read. Some of the writing is quite good, some is quite bad. But whether good or bad, I find that sometimes I am in awe and say, “who the hell wrote this?”  Sometimes I am impressed with the writing, and sometimes I am mortified, but all of the time I know that these writings are just going to be read by me. This is the reason I never truly feel like a writer.

My passion for writing has burned, like a steady flame for the majority of my life. But for the past few years, the passion and the dream have started to flicker, and a few times I felt that the flame was going out. I felt my dream was a fraud. What kind of writer only writes for themselves?  But, I refused to let the flame go out. I enrolled in a University, to obtain my BA in English. The method to this madness? Maybe an education would give me the confidence to achieve my dream. So far, this education has helped to keep my confidence at a fairly steady level, and it has definitely helped keep the writing flame burning. I highly recommend education. But I still don’t feel like a writer, because I am not a writer, I am just a writing student, a very old writing student. I need to get my work out there for people to read, and then I will feel like a writer.

How does a writer get there work out there? Blogging is one way, and I am grateful for all the hits that I get, and for all of my followers. But I am not consistent about blogging which makes me a bad blogger, therefore a bad writer. I need more to push me. I need to be accountable to someone.  So, I scan down the list of writing jobs on Craigslist, and feel like a failure, because everyone wants a writer with experience.  I’ve been writing since the first grade, I am loaded with experience.  <~~~~ Take it from me; this does not make a resume.

Then I came across an ad on Craigslist for the Boston Urban News. Journalism was not quite the route that I was taking, but something made me apply for the position. I opened my resume document, and deleted my first grade comment and added the only two accomplishments that I have, then I sent my pathetic little writing resume off to the company. Pretty much the only thing on my so-called-resume is my blog link, and my editorial board experience on the SNHU school journal. I never expected to hear back from them.

I did hear back from them, and they were setting up times for interviews.  I put my name down for the interview, with my mouth agape the whole time. On the day of the interview I was so nervous that I felt like I was going to throw up. I was so nervous that I was contemplating not showing up for the interview, but like a trooper I went, because I am a writer.

I sat in the hall waiting to be seen. I was trying to calm my breathing and stomach. I took a deep breath in, “in with the good” I silently chanted. I blew it out,” out with the bad.”  After a few repetitions I started feeling calmer, until the next interviewee came and sat next to me. He was so calm and chatty. He asked me question after question and told me all about himself. He was a nice enough guy, but did he not recognize that he was sitting next to a basket case, who was desperately trying to find her Zen place? The door opened, a young lady called my name and my brain turned to sludge.

I somehow boggled through the interview, and made myself appear somewhat normal. But I walked out feeling terrible. I knew that I would not get this job. But even though I knew there was no chance for me, I checked my email hourly, daily for 8-days. Until today when I woke up and with blurry eyes started opening my email. “We would love for you to join the Boston Urban News team as a writer!”, was the first line of the email. I took my glasses off, rubbed my eyes and put the glasses back on so that I could clearly read it. Yep, that’s what it says, I thought to myself. Then I wondered who the jokester was. I checked out the sender’s email address. It’s legit, my heart beat faster. I reread the email, and when I was 100% sure that I was not delusional, I ran downstairs, shrieked like a little girl and shared the news with my family. Then I went to Facebook, shrieked and shared the news with that family, and now I am shrieking while blogging my news.

My excitement and joy is to the point that I feel as if I am going to burst. This strong emotion is how I know that I am a writer.

Now, I have to get to work!

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10 reasons why being a writer ROCKS!

I love inspiration!!!!

Damian Trasler's Secret Blog - Do Not Read!

Forget the Hemingway image of the writer, bearded, drunk and slumped over a typewriter filled with cigarette butts. Being a writer need not equate to misery, alcohol abuse and blinding headaches. Being a writer ROCKS, and here’s why:

  1. You can do it all the time. Don’t tell me that the happiest Chartered Accountant or Quantity Surveyor can do their job when they’re not at work. That accountant needs his spreadsheets and accounts, and that Quantity Surveyor needs…er…quantities of stuff to survey. But writers are writing ALL THE TIME. We walk around and our characters tell their stories in our heads. Walking the dog, we are striding the worlds we create. The part of the job that is done at the keyboard is only the culmination of the process. How cool is that?
  2. Your job, your rules. Yes, there are guidelines about plot, and character development, and first person…

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Cancer Anger

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Breast Cancer Candle Stock Photography

 

I stop my black, Ford pick- up truck at the red light. I take a deep breath in and think about how amazingly strong I am. I am calm, I haven’t gone crazy, and I am so good at dealing with what has been given to me. I smile. I look in the rear view mirror, and see a beautiful, voluptuous blonde in a Beamer stopped behind me. She is looking in her rear view mirror, fluffing her long, luxurious locks of hair. She turns her head to one side, then the other so that she gets a good look at her glowing beauty. I sigh, and catch a glimpse of my own reflection in my mirror. My head wrap has slipped up. How long has it been like that? I wonder. I pull it down to cover my bald head. I look at the lit cigarette in my hand and flick it out the truck window. I see the nasty butt flying through the air, into the Beamer and landing on the bleached-blonde, bimbo’s hair. Poof. Her hair ignites. Flames shoot up. She is no longer admiring her beauty, as she tries to put the flames of her hair out. Her face is contorted in pain. Maybe I should help her. Nah, that is what the bleached-blonde bimbo in the Beamer deserves.

 

 

A blaring car horn snaps me from my reverie. I look in the mirror and see bimbo babe impatiently giving me hand gestures to move.I return the favor and give her my own hand gesture.  I take a deep breath in. yes, I am handling this breast cancer quite well.

 

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A Letter to You

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A Letter to You

You are not so big, bad or brave. You are a coward that grows in darkness. You stay unfelt, unknown and unseen, until you grow your balls and unleash your doom. You press your ominous misshapen, mess of a mass against whatever is vital. You are merciless, and drain life from the young and old without hesitation. How strong were you when the cold, steel blade cut you away from me. You shriveled and died in the oxygenated sterility. You may have left a seedling or two of your carnivorous spawn, but like you, I will kill them too. Your name is cancer, a name that most fear. I do not fear you, as much as I detest you. I will always fight you until the death. Your death!

 

The Blank Page

Whew. I finally finished my final paper for my literary theory class. This was the toughest paper that I have had to write in the past two years. I have to admit that it would have been a tiny bit easier to write if I hadn’t waited to start the paper on its due date. Yes, I started writing it on the due date. That is me, the world’s best procrastinator. But I do my best work under pressure. I always wait till the last minute and I always get those finals in on time.. Well not this time. My lit paper was 4 days late. Hmm, how many points will get deducted for that? Doing a paper on the book Ceremony, from a historical/cultural theoretical perspective is not as easy as I thought. Not as interesting either, but I did learn so much about the Native American culture, which was a great learning experience, and well isn’t that what college is all about.

Now that I am done with the paper, maybe I can get started on some creative writing. I wish that there was a due date for creativity. I would be late with the work, but it would get done.

Writer’s Dilema

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It seems that I can write a whole book while taking a short shower. Great writing ideas come to me while I am driving on the highway, working, washing dishes, or doing laundry, but I forget it all when I am sitting at the computer staring at a blank page.  My mind goes blank. I freeze.

How do I get all these great ideas onto paper? Is there a pretty purple pill that can help me? Are there any other writers out here in this vast cyber space that can relate to me?