||[Jul. 7th, 2009|03:00 am]
Kelly J. Cooper
I want to be a writer. I call myself a writer, despite the fact that I mostly edit. Copy edit, even, no longer the editor of a publication, just a freelancer, chugging through the assignments of students and the occasional report that only government types will read.
I am a writer.
Am I a writer?
Writer. Writing. Why don't I write? I scribble, I covet, I play pretend. I buy books about writing, about marketing myself as a writer, about the writing market, about putting my ass in the chair and doing the work, but I don't finish anything. I don't publish. I don't even submit.
I read, have read, continue to read web articles and books and magazines about choosing places to submit to and crafting query letters correctly (or at least with minimal annoyances) and I can quote a lot of it, explain it, give excellent advice that I cannot take.
There is no center, I have no center, I'm just waddling around, sprawling, bawling, whining about it without actually doing it because I can't find the way THROUGH myself, through the thicket that is my brain, through the tangled forest of my own resistance and love and desire and fear to GET TO THE OTHER SIDE or at least find a fuckin' path and a scattered trail of white stones.
I'd settle for a breadcrumb.
I've recently read that fear of success is a fear of change, a fear of the unknown that could dramatically shift my world around and make me adapt, which is always a creaky and awkward, ungainly thing for me to do. I embrace change, just not in my nest, not in my hole, my messy and disorganized little reality bubble.
I don't know if that's the problem, but I wish I did know.