I thought I was done writing for the night. Aha! Think again! In all seriousness, I thought I'd take some time to talk about my dream.
When I've laid down in bed and tried to fall asleep at night, I've thought about the same thing every night for the past six months. I want to do this for a living. I want to write for a living. I don't need to be famous. I don't need my name to overshadow the title on the cover of my books. I just need to be comfortably employed as a writer. I need to have the freedom to answer only to myself. I need to be able to dye my hair pink because I feel like it. I need to be able to live in Buffalo, to take a walk down Elmwood, and to sit in a coffee shop, and to write, and have that be work.
I can do it. I know that I have talent, and this might just be the one thing in life where I have the drive to excel. I can't tear myself away from writing. I do several blog posts a day. When I'm editing, I do at least fifty pages, depending on the type of edits. When I'm writing, I do twenty to thirty. I love telling stories. I love creating worlds and then living in them as my fingers fly across the keyboard. My dream is simply to continue doing so.
Sometimes my little fantasy world is that simple, sometimes it's a little more complex. I've envisioned packing a box with signed copies of one of my books and mailing them to my old coworkers out of spite. I've seen myself doing book signings in the mall, chatting amicably with whoever happens to wander by. I've seen myself returning to my high school to give a presentation while my old English teachers look on and smile. I've dreamt of living in the Elks Terminal lofts, a block away from HSBC arena, and walking down there on sunny afternoons to pitter away at my laptop on the curb nearby because I can think of no better place to be.
I can see myself full of energy when I get my first publishing deal. I can picture the joy when I realize that I don't have to get a 'real job.' I can even see myself looking back on this moment, remembering when I was unemployed, when I lived at home, and when the rejections were piling up and thinking man, if only I had known.
I work hard and I'm not even getting paid. Last night I wrote eleven and a half pages for Arnett Tanner Wants to Die, finished around five blog entries, and edited fifty pages of Cube Wars. There are days when I wake up at two in the afternoon, and I work straight through until four in the morning. I don't take weekends off. It's probably been at least three months since there was a day when I didn't do any writing at all. And so far it has been without a single cent coming my way. You'd think that would be depressing, that I could work so hard and see so few tangible results, but it's not. I can say one thing for certain.
This is the first time in my life that I can remember finishing a day and climbing into bed at night with unrestrained excitement for the day that is to follow because I simply cannot wait to wake up in the mid afternoon to do it all over again.
I can make a career out of this, right?