I have so many ideas bouncing about in my head right now that I haven't done any actual writing
this week. I get excited about these soon to be developed story ideas
and potential items for query, but I'm finding that's all I'm doing.
Thinking. It occurred to me that this may be my newest form of
procrastination; one I fondly call marination procrastination. I can
only justify this for so long, after which point I'm no longer a
writer, but rather a marinator. If I continue on this path, future
cocktail party conversations will go down in a fashion similar to this:
Cocktail
Party Goer: "Hi, my name is Petunia Pot Pie. I'm a chef and prepared
all these yummy vegan hors devours. What is it that you do?"
Me:
"Well, I used to be a writer, but now, I just marinate. I believe I'm
the first professional marinator, but take it from me, it doesn't pay
all that well."
My goal in the next few days is to get some
of these chewy words out of my head and onto paper.
I knew I was a writer since I wrote my first poem about bubble gum
(complete with artwork of a gumball machine) when I was kindergarten. I
mean, bubble gum was important and I had a lot to say about it, of
course. I continued to write with gusto throughout childhood and into
my teenage years having always been encouraged by my family and
teachers. Labeling myself as a writer gave me a sense of identity and I
relished that.
But
when I went to college that all changed. Freshman year at
Ohio University brought an interesting group of young women together on
the third floor on Tiffin Hall. It was like being on an island where
everyone had a certain skill they were known for, much like the
Professor inventing coconut radios or Ginger putting on lavish stage
productions. We had a resident biologist, linguist, musician, political
scientist, dancer, and naturally, writer. But that writer wasn't me,
see, because I wasn't majoring in journalism but rather english
education. I was taking "the easy way" and was going to teach how to
write instead of doing it myself. Or so I was told, and amazingly
enough, believed and eventually even dropped the major entirely. I
decided that if I couldn't be a "real" writer, I'd better find a major
that
would support me finding a "real" job. I needed to be practical, right?
My world was no longer about bubble gum.
Unconsciously, I would
find myself flipping the newest course offerings catalog to the classes
on writing, English and literature. I always had one of them in my
schedule without fail. During a particular English course my senior
year, I had to meet with a professor to critique an assignment and
still vividly remember the look on his face when I told him that I
wasn't
an English major: jaw dropped, head titled, confusion all around. "It's
just a hobby" I tried to explain. He said he wished other students took
their major as seriously as my hobby.
There was still a spark there. It wasn't much, but it was still burning. I have tried extinguish it many times.
I've
been a copywriter, a speech writer, and a Lifestyle writer since
graduation and never thought it was anything particularly challenging.
I just assumed that everyone could write because it was easy; surely
what I did wasn't special. But I keep getting nudged to reconsider this
thought.
So
here I am, throwing my hat in the ring because it's
just time. I'll give this writing thing a fair shake because if I
don't, I'll always wonder. At this point, I'm not entirely sure which
direction I want to go. Doesn't everyone have a novel in them? Am I
supposed to freelance and get paid for piffy articles about handbags
and bicycles? I'm not entirely certain, but here's where the fun
begins.
Here's when I begin to find out. I'm pretty sure I can still blow
bubbles.