Today it's about believing I am writer. Easy peasy right? Well, not so fast. Believe is defined as accepting something as true. I believe the sky is blue; I believe humans need oxygen to survive; I believe the earth is round. Yes, I can say I believe these things without question. Why? They are proven facts that any reasonable person can't deny. Okay then, I believe I'm a writer. Whoa, do I really? No. Not in the same why as I believe the sky is blue. Why? Because I measure this truth on external factors such as getting read, getting published. The tangible. In order to get to these places, I need believe that I'm a writer and I write for me.
"Everything that’s holding us back. Resisting us. Compelling us to settle for the status quo." Jeff Goins
I officially declared myself a writer on Twitter; in public. Calling myself a writer still makes me feel like a tourist. A tourist of the worst variety. You know, takes bus tours, eats in only chain restaurants, fears the locals, and fears every three seconds for their password. Yep, that's me. Wandering through the writing world with a fanny pack full of weird currency, wishing I was in the comforts of my living room.
Tourist or not, I do know one thing for sure. I'm a fiction writer. Through and through. Writing about personal feelings, struggles, challenges, illnesses, family, travel experiences, giving birth, children, etc is better left to the professionals. Let me dream up a character with a name, past, present, future, desires, failures, quarks, and dysfunctions and I'm a happy camper!
This is what blurb nerve is all about. Blurbs that can stand on their own. But can also be part of a bigger story. I vow to post a daily blurb.
Check back daily!
For years, I wanted to be a writer. I would sit down with my notebook, jotting down my thoughts, creating character profiles, coming up with plots, and yet all the while my inner dialogue would be second guessing me; telling me that I'm no good at it and never would be; telling me to go do the dishes rather than continue writing. So, rather than actually writing and improving, I did things around this dream. A degree in English earned me a hell of a job as, you guessed it, a writer, but not really the writer I wanted to be. That was ten years ago. In those ten years, I have become a hell of a writer, a corporate writer, but a writer nonetheless. However, the other writer has been sorely neglected, jammed among the debris of long forgotten dreams and goals and desires. Occasionally, though, it pokes its uncertain head out of the darkness as a reminder that there is a writer, a real writer that needs some attention. And that time is upon us!