There is always, always a plan. Even when I try to let life lead, there is always a plan. Even when I don’t know exactly what the outcome will be, there are a number of options. Like the doors on a gameshow, I expect the outcome to my big life decisions to fall within the confines of one of them, or some combination of the lot. This time has been very different.
When the idea to write for a living came along, it was as though, for a moment, I suddenly had sea legs. Is that even legal? Surely I’m not one of the beautiful people. I’m not someone who gets to spend her days creating. Surely my mind isn’t independent enough, I’m not relentless enough, and after all, who on Earth wants to read what I’ve got to write?
Alas, I’m over a year into this endeavor and I can say that, without a doubt, I’ve not yet figured out the answers to any of those questions, or calmed any of those doubts (with the exception of that question on legality. Apparently it is. You heard it here first, beloved readers).
Don’t get me wrong – this post is not some big fishing festival – you read me, ergo, I’m gonna go ahead and assume you think I’m wonderful, either because of my uncanny ability to whittle words or because you just love me from way back. I’ll take either one. As to the editors I’ve contacted, the feedback has been…limited. I’ve sold a few articles, I’ve written several more for free, and I keep on keeping on. But there has been more than a little hubris along the way.
See, the first thought was this: