It’s Getting Serious! Writing My Way.

A while ago, while posting a vague Facebook post about some decisions I had made in regards to career/future, my phone auto-corrected “gut” to “guy.”  As in “I just have to trust my gut (or, as it read: guy) and listen.”  To which a dear friend responded, “your guy?” and my sister chimed in, “… we need to talk soon.”

And I shook my head, and cursed my smart-phone (something that happens a bit it seems), laughed, and responded with the correction, and disbelief that they would think I would trust a guy (especially a guy who neither of them had ever even heard the existence of) with life decisions.  Because, I suppose someday I might be in a relationship serious enough where I would be trusting “my guy,” and seeking their input into big changes I am choosing to take.  But I am not in such a place now.

Which is really just a random glimpse into my life and long introduction to what I really want to write about.

The reality is I am getting serious about something.  I have to admit, this is the first time in my writing career that I’ve been actually serious about my writing.  At least, in some ways.  And to the point where I am actually making some decisions with the question in mind of, “What might this do to my goals as a writer?”

1907341_1423515757914294_25137875546648740_nBefore my writing had been a pastime or hobby.  Something I enjoyed and felt driven to do.  I dreamed about publishing and “being a real writer.”  I dreamed about people reading my writing, people who I didn’t get together with on a regular basis, or weren’t related to me.  And I even submitted my writing for publications, in magazines and such, gathering little stacks of rejection letters at different points in my life.

But, even though I was writing and writing and writing, there was a lot I wasn’t doing.  A lot of things that, just in the past few months (and because of things that have been building and developing over the years) have become a real part of my life.  And I realized that I now, really think of myself as a writer.  I refer to it as my “work” — not my “job,” that’s something else entirely — but my work, certainly.    And it’s causing me to look at some parts of it a little differently.

Things like editing… really editing.  Or setting aside the time to write every day, even if I have no time in that day?  Making decisions about what things I am willing to let go of in order to give myself what I need to work on my writing.  Being willing to keep working on a story even if the “muse” has left and I feel burnt out.  Setting deadlines, and sticking to them.  Setting schedules, and putting myself “out there.”

All these things I have been doing, and slowly am becoming aware of.  And I am doing these things in my own time (obviously.  I mean, I’ve been writing for a long time now, and am only just getting round to being serious about it like this), and in my own way.   Because I always seem to do things in my own way.  Though I suppose we all do — that’s what makes us each unique and special.  We have our own approaches to things, our own ways to pursue our craft and go about our lives.

I’ve reminded myself a lot lately that I can’t compare my own personal timeline to that of other people’s.  Just because so-and-so had done x, y and z by the time they were such-and-such an age, does not mean that I need to be.  Or that I should be.  Because everything that has led me to the place I am in my life, the decisions I have made, the things I have and haven’t done, all have helped to make me me.

And I keep this in mind as I continue to look at the writing I’m doing, and push myself to a point of feeling like my writing, my craft, is really my work.  Writing my way to something.  Writing, my way.

 

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