As someone who has wrestled with the Alice Miller type of grandiosity, I’ve thought quite a bit over the past year about activities that I do because I love them, not for any external reward or recognition. The biggest of these is writing.
I’ve always felt like I was five arduous years away from being the kind of writer really worth reading. I could never be a poet or a fiction writer or a news journalist, but when I read Gladwell and Michael Lewis and these guys, I’m both impressed and inspired. I think I have that in me. It’s not going to be easy, but I think it’s within reach if I’m diligent and willing to get my ass kicked into shape by a certain individual whose initials are JK.
One reason I’ve avoided this in my life is because two of my close friends are writers — and better writers now than I’ll ever be, certainly. Yet now I understand my little niche in things, and I think I can do it reasonably well someday.
There is no way to learn writing but to write, and so I’ve begun. While my primary focus is on getting good and ignoring the world of publishing, I’ve recently published two articles and signed a deal to ghostwrite a book. The articles (both on financial risk) are extremely well-thought out but not particularly well written. The book, however, is going smashingly.
I’m writing now for one reason: because I enjoy it. Any publication that comes is truly, truly coincidental. In fact, I still think that (aside from the book in development) the best thing I’ve ever written was the Laguna Beach series of posts on this blog.
To see what I’m referring to with all this, and to chart my little trajectory, I’ve added a new page, which you can see on the top menu called “The Writing Life“. Take a gander.
And, thanks to the fact that I now publish stuff, get paid to write, and think of it as the most enjoyable part of my life, I can now say without any shame, for better or worse: I am a writer.
Reader Comments