Dreaming through the noise.

Despite the fact that it's Tuesday.

Tomorrow, I "go back to work" after two weeks off. I put the phrase in quotes because, well, I don't actually go anywhere with the whole working-from-home thing. Hell, some days, I'm lucky I make it out of my pajamas. (Maybe I should have made a New Year's resolution regarding getting dressed everyday...)

Regardless, it still drops me into the typical Sunday-mood, lamenting the end of my time off.

I think it's exacerbated this time around since I've been sick since the 24th and spent most of this last week on the couch, drinking tea and Theraflu and trying to avoid coughing fits, so I haven't done anything I thought I might do while having time off.

Hell, I should be honest with myself. I probably wouldn't have gotten much done even if I hadn't felt like a used tissue (ragged and snotty) most of the time. The fact is, I usually am more creatively productive when I have other (mundane, daily) obligations poking at me. (It stems partly from some internal juvenile rebellion I never managed to shake.)


I do this to myself after every scheduled vacation. Lament the end of it, bemoan having to go back to work, console myself with my Furlough Fridays and the slow procession of us gaining new projects (a double edged sword; I'd take the shitloads of work over having no income, of course), which means I have additional time--to myself--to get to the things I didn't get to during my vacation.

So, with that in mind, I'm setting a goal, for this Friday, of making the last few tweaks to an old short story I just had my new writers group critique; I doubt it'll go out this weekend, but it needs to be readied.

Beyond that, I'm going to get back in the groove of scribbling in my impossible things journal, responding to writing prompts over in the blogspot community, and continuing on with drafting vignettes for Dispatches from New Vegas.

I recently bought Lily Holbrook's Wicked Ways.



And it has been living in my car for the last week. It's absolutely gorgeous. Melodic and haunting. And there's a nostalgic quality to it that I can't really explain.

One of the songs I'm particularly taken with is "Sweet Little Girl," which you can listen to here.

There is evil in these woods
Where she brought you to the edge
Touched your heart and then it bled
Trickling down, down, down

There's a fever in your head
Rising when she calls your name
On your lips, her kiss of death
Takes you down, down, down...



This album is going in my "Soundtracks for Writing" pile.

I had a bit of an epiphany about myself and my writing the other day.

I'd spotted a flash fiction anthology forthcoming from a very small, independent publisher and thought "Hey, I can write werewolves/zombies/vampires" and decided to write something to submit.

Well, in the process—and I was making fair progress, I had the scene, because you don't get much more than a scene with 500 words, vividly visualized—I got distracted (by the day job) before I could finish drafting it. Le sigh. So, now, I feel like I may be missing something vital, but I'm not sure what. The pacing or the flow, something about the narrative.... I can't pin it down.

And, as often happens when I'm having a tough time getting the words to come, I started feeling a little bit hackish.

(People tell me I'm not a hack writer, but sometimes...I disagree.)

Anyway, to console myself I did some blog hopping and reading and stumbled onto a post that brought me to the aforementioned epiphany.

The epiphany was simple: I am a writer.

I don't give myself enough credit for this.

I'm a writer because that's what I do. It's who I am.

I wrote fiction, as a kid, when my audience was non-existent or consisted only of my parents. I wrote fiction (including fanfiction) and blogs as a teenager and now as an adult with an audience that has been fluid and ever shifting, consisting of (largely) strangers on the internet with a few exemplary ones who stop long enough to send me wonderful and encouraging comments and critiques.

And...I make a living as a writer. This is something I never really bothered to examine before and I think it's because what I'm doing in my day-to-day work is not my first writing love (that's fiction). But 90% of what I do for my day job is writing (and research and editing). And I enjoy it. Because I like crafting with words and creating a cohesive story even if it's not necessarily my story.


I make a living doing something that I like/love. I make a living as a writer.


There's something else, too. I hadn't thought of it until just now.

When I was a kid, people would ask me what my dream job was and my response (after a few years and a few false ideas that consisted of ice skater and veterinarian) was: a writer.

There you go.

Silly child-me, I just forgot to specify the type of writer I wanted to be. Eventually I'll learn to get more detailed in my wishes.


I still get the passing "Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if I could make a living writing fiction" synapse.

But, in all honesty, that was never something that was on my radar as realistic. Most creative writers don't make a living on their fiction writing. Some do really well and can nicely supplement their income. Some can afford a nice treat through their earnings a couple of times a year. Some sell only one piece every few years. It's truly only a handful of people who can quit their day jobs (unless they have some kind of patron, whether that's in the form of the Government via a grant, or a University via sabbatical, or even a spouse).


All of this goes to say that, henceforth, I will not quell my first thought when someone asks me what I do: I'm a writer. (Incidentally, an instructional designer.)

And when they ask me what I've written—because, invariably, people do ask that and sometimes it's a question geared toward "what" you write but other times it's geared toward "are you published?" because writer has become synonymous with author—I will disabuse them of that notion. And then explain what I do and what I write.



Inspiration for the epiphany came from this blog post. From this section in particular:

So before you give in to the I’m-not-really-a-writer blues, remember:

· If your queries are coming back with form/silent rejections, you’re a writer.
· If your WIP is refusing to come to a satisfactory end and you kind of hate your protagonist right now, you’re a writer.
· If your neglected spouse suggests you take up something more lucrative and less time consuming, like making a model of the Taj Mahal out of toothpicks, you’re a writer.
· If you’re questioning your worthiness to call yourself a writer—welcome to the club.