I write for a living but regret to say that I’ve only lived for writing haphazardly and intermittently. Every so often I’ll be bitten by the bug and will write like a mad thing until, I don’t know, the bite stops itching or the scab falls off or something.
Procrastinators, they say, are afraid of success. I suspect this is how I’ve gone most of my life not really doing the thing that down in my soul I suspect I should be doing all the time. I have a few phobias, fear of success and failure are about equally matched in intensity.
The freakiest thing that’s ever happened as a result of something I’ve written: one summer I wrote a Harlequin-type romance novel starring me and the former man of my dreams — I was bored and broke and it was nice to pretend. A year or so later I went to a psychic who told me that the man I loved wasn’t currently available (true) but that he loved me (whoo-hoo!) and if I could just be patient all good things would come to me, yada yada yada. I later realized she’d told me the plot of the book, down to the timing of the waiting period until he’d come around.
I’m resolved to stop procrastinating. I have a work in progress that I’m quite captivated by, I like the idea, and I like the way it’s shaping up. I’m having a blast writing it. I decided to start a blog because a friend of mine who’s also a writer told me I should — on the theory, I guess, that the more you write the more you write. And it’s true, I have non-work-in-progress stuff that I don’t have a forum for. And ta-da! here’s a forum.
People who have blogs kill me, can I just say. I promise not to post my every brain fart as if you should welcome it with smiles and flowers. And if it’s a stinker, well, I apologize in advance.