I am a writer.
The process of my reintegration with my life is slow-going.
I'm currently lying in bed in a motel in Redding. Last night, I was in Portland. In the morning, I'll be heading home. I was tempted to press on further south today, but I resisted. This three-day journey is medicinal.
That said, I think I want to run off and go back to Seattle. Of course, that's not going to work: all of us have scattered to the four winds, and I have a life that I'm setting about. I'm going to school this fall and getting on with my plans.
Still: tempted. So very tempted.
I had dinner, drinks, and an amazing conversation with maryrobinette last night. It was a great discussion about all sorts of things, and it gave me the chance to articulate a lot of the things that have been milling about in my head with regards to my experience at Clarion West. Far beyond being delightful company (and she is that), Mary Robinette had many wise and funny things to say, and she displayed great generosity of spirit to me. Also, she has great taste in places to eat/drink.
But here's the thing, the thing that I was explaining to Mary Robinette that I now know in my heart and in my bones and not just in my over-intellectualizing brain: I am a writer.
I am.
I am a writer, and there's no escaping that fact. I have no excuse. It's sheer laziness and dereliction of duty if I don't write. I now know, with a certainty, that I can do it, and love it, and that it makes me happy and feel wonder-full, even when it utterly terrifies me. (Yes, yes, I know I knew those things before, but not as deeply, and now I've got six solid weeks worth of evidence to back it up.)
Mary Robinette, bless her, just laughed and said the blessed and kind equivalent of "well, duh" at me, and more than once, because even though I had articulated so much of the emotions and knowledge that go to that statement, "I am a writer."--I had not quite said that, so she said it for me. And that just hit me, and yeah, holy holy holy.
I am.
In the conversation, I said something I want to mention here, so I remember it: I now know what a fledgling feels like as it drops out of the nest for the first time.
Until now, I've been saying I'm in my pre-career when it comes to writing. That's no longer true. I'm in my early career now.
It feels good.
So, as we CW 2011ers say: Let's do this thing.
I'm currently lying in bed in a motel in Redding. Last night, I was in Portland. In the morning, I'll be heading home. I was tempted to press on further south today, but I resisted. This three-day journey is medicinal.
That said, I think I want to run off and go back to Seattle. Of course, that's not going to work: all of us have scattered to the four winds, and I have a life that I'm setting about. I'm going to school this fall and getting on with my plans.
Still: tempted. So very tempted.
I had dinner, drinks, and an amazing conversation with maryrobinette last night. It was a great discussion about all sorts of things, and it gave me the chance to articulate a lot of the things that have been milling about in my head with regards to my experience at Clarion West. Far beyond being delightful company (and she is that), Mary Robinette had many wise and funny things to say, and she displayed great generosity of spirit to me. Also, she has great taste in places to eat/drink.
But here's the thing, the thing that I was explaining to Mary Robinette that I now know in my heart and in my bones and not just in my over-intellectualizing brain: I am a writer.
I am.
I am a writer, and there's no escaping that fact. I have no excuse. It's sheer laziness and dereliction of duty if I don't write. I now know, with a certainty, that I can do it, and love it, and that it makes me happy and feel wonder-full, even when it utterly terrifies me. (Yes, yes, I know I knew those things before, but not as deeply, and now I've got six solid weeks worth of evidence to back it up.)
Mary Robinette, bless her, just laughed and said the blessed and kind equivalent of "well, duh" at me, and more than once, because even though I had articulated so much of the emotions and knowledge that go to that statement, "I am a writer."--I had not quite said that, so she said it for me. And that just hit me, and yeah, holy holy holy.
I am.
In the conversation, I said something I want to mention here, so I remember it: I now know what a fledgling feels like as it drops out of the nest for the first time.
Until now, I've been saying I'm in my pre-career when it comes to writing. That's no longer true. I'm in my early career now.
It feels good.
So, as we CW 2011ers say: Let's do this thing.