I rather readily admit that I didn’t know what I was doing when I started this lark. One day, after months and months and months of thinking, I said to the man: “I think I’d like to try writing.”.
And, so, I did. I tried writing.
I know how to write. Most of my education was very ‘writing’ focussed. My ‘career’, as it were, was almost entirely based on communicating via the written word. Hell, I even have genuine, official, high-calibre training in journalism.
But actually writing writing. That’s something a bit different.
Writing on my own. By myself. So that someone will read it. So that someone will actually want to read it. So that someone will read it and think, or maybe, maybe one day even say: ‘Wow. I actually got something from that.’. Well, that’s a-whole-nother kind of writing, my friend. A whole ‘nother kind of writing.
But, I’m trying. I am.
I write here. For me. For you. For anyone who wants a little glimpse into the chaos of my mind. Well, for anyone who wants a glimpse into the edited chaos I choose to put on the page.
And, then, every now and then I work up the nerve to put something ‘out there’. To submit something. To say to faceless judges ‘what do you think of this, gentlepeople?’.
The first time was awful. (That’s usually the case, though, isn’t it.) I closed my eyes and typed. I submitted something almost thoughtlessly. Just to have done it. Just to have it done.
It was good to have the first time over with. And the results were as expected.
But, then, I did it again.
And someone – well, the folks at Veronica Literary Magazine , actually – said, okay, we’ll take that. And that felt good.
And, then, I tried it again.
And someone else – the lovely Bern at Writing at Modern is Art – said, hey, that’s not bad. And that felt even better.
And, so, I’ll try it again. And again. And again.
But, here’s the thing, not everyone is going to like what I write. And, the things that I like best aren’t necessarily the things that other people will like best (or at all).
And, so, I’ll try again, and again, and again, to hit that sweet spot, that intersection, that point where we’re in agreement.
Where what’s being read is what I wanted to write.
Rehab is hard and raw and not that pretty and, in all honesty, I love it to my core, because, while it’s fiction, I think it’s also true. Perhaps it’s not necessary to say that, from what I can tell, others were much less fond of it than I. . . .
Every Day is kind and gentle and sweet and seemed, to me, the perfect accompaniment to Bern Ross’s Life As We Know It. A bit of style experiment and something I hope to develop.