I am reading lots of literary blogs and agency webpages at the moment, because I am polishing my ability to wind myself up into a jibbering blob, possibly one that functions by emitting a high pitched continuous noise at exactly equal intervals.
And I had this thought about writers: they desire publication (duh) – non-writers (who write) desire to be writers.
Unpoignant, until you realise that until you have actually finished a book, you are a non-writer. You are writing, and as you progress along the plotline you become closer and closer to being a writer (it is an evolutionary process, methinks), but you’re not quite officially there until you turn round and go, “It’s done! What next?”
Unless, obviously, you’re one of those people who wants all the results out of life but couldn’t giving a flying fuck about the journey. About whom I retract the adjective which makes clear my opinion.
I remember before I ever finished a novel fearing that I would never do it, that I didn’t have that umph to actually get there. And then, when I was thirteen, I finally finished one.
I went running up and down the street with a large cardboard tube. I was very happy. And after that I knew that even if I don’t get published, I could get published. And there are a whole load of other things out there which aren’t about writing which I could do because I could stick at a project, work it, keep the whole thing in my mind and doggedly progress until completion. I almost feared that we would never get through the planning to actually do the wedding and be married, but I knew we could, so I made sure we did.
Actually the blogs make me feel better about being a writer, because I had my doubts that an unpublished writer counted as a writer, but everybody else seems to think they do and it’s easier to talk about it their way around.