I’m tired of writing about motivation and maps and goals. Now, I’m going to write about the work. The daily grind, the nose to the grindstone, feels like torture to get started: WORK.
It is hard sitting at a kitchen table with your neck aching and your hands cramping trying to tell a story that is as likely to be adored as it is to be ‘just not the right fit’ for us. It is hard to figure out editing and cover art and self-promotion. It is hard to find an avenue to share your work with the world.
I had decided to go indie until I got a request from an agent who may or may not do one of three things: tell me she isn’t interested, ask to represent me, or not respond at all.
It’s like shooting your infant into outer space. My work is like baby Superman, I guess, and I hope it finds a kindly Jonathan and Martha to take care of it once it reaches its destination. (sorry my nerd is showing.)
But here I am. Working hard. Waiting. Putting the words on paper. Taking a new job to survive and waiting. Ever waiting. But you know what? That’s ok. Because, I like the writing.
Some acknowledgement would be wonderful.
Some money would be fantastic and freeing.
But I don’t need that to keep writing. The writing itself is the reward. Telling stories that at least my friends will read and that express my creativity, is highly satisfying. Like running. It is a great rush to finish a race and even better to win, but that’s not the point. Running for me is about the process. Like writing, the practice is good for my brain, spirit, and soul.
I’m still planning and hoping to get my words to a wider audience. Heck, self-pubbing in May or June is just as good as February or March, so the end game is still in play. But until then you will find me in the coffee shop. Or at the kitchen table. Or in my car with a notepad. Writing.