For a rare treat, we have dinner plates of perfectly pan fried fresh caught trout on our laps in front of the fire and watch a movie. Julie & Julia.
When I was 17, I returned to the states from a year in France where I started as an au pere and found myself diving deep into the depths of the divine world of French cooking. I figured I would be a chef because French cooking was all I really had, all I really knew or could do. And I learned that wasn’t such a bad thing, either. Went over pretty well at dinner. Alas, practicality proved stronger than passion, and the need for a job just to pay to eat won over the ability (or rather, lack there of) to pay to learn to cook… In other words, a quick stint waitressing (where I quickly learned I was better cooking food than serving food), then settling into office work won out over the Culinary Institute.
Though I’d bet you my husband is pretty glad I did learn and do love to cook.
But here I am still not a “real” writer. I’m still not paid to be published. In an attempt to act professional, I even requested a humble stipend from a local magazine that features my work regularly, and I’ve yet to hear a response. Gee, thanks.
It’s not discipline I lack. I’m all for the daily early waking allowing me time to sneak in my writing before my “real” day begins. In those early hours, I managed to finish my first full length manuscript. It’s been accepted by a literary agent, so I thought I’d be a regular name at Barnes and Nobles by now. But alas, it is somehow stuck in that literary limbo and not going anywhere. “Be patient,” he tells me. Trust. I’m not patient, and losing confidence. Not that I had much to begin with. I’m not doing the “self publish” thing. Say what you will, “real” writers don’t go there.
So, here I am trying to justify rejections, getting plenty of practice, and thinking more often than not now that my book is never going anywhere and this blog is just my relief and release for, what would you call it, creative expression? Oh, I am grateful my husband “lets” me take the time to write, but come on, seriously, what the hell am I doing here? How can I justify the time I’ve put into this writing, and then commit to the next manuscript when I’ve yet to see a penny from all this time spent… playing around with words?
Whatever. I’m going to write. Whether you read it or not. A quiet voice along a raging river. Words that flow like water in my ever active imagination, but get swept away by the wild winds, never to be heard from again.