I have a confession to make: I am a horrible writer. And a horrible human being, too – I am a phony. Why, you ask? Well, isn’t the answer obvious? Because it wasn’t until I was about eighteen that I realised that I want to be a writer. And that’s way too late.
I know. That’s awful, I should feel bad, and I shouldn’t have the right to call myself a writer. Because it’s totally obvious that, if you didn’t write/tell/draw/dance stories since you were in diapers, and being a writer was your life-long dream and passion, you can’t truly be a writer. So that means that I’m doomed, stuck in this limbo where I desperately want to be a writer, but will never be granted the right to actually be one.
Okay, let’s get serious again. I noticed that, more often than not, published (and unpublished) writers claim that they have had this dream to write for a living for as long as they can remember, that they dictated their stories to their mothers, who dutifully wrote them down, and then proceeded to tell their little brother a bedtime story instead of mum or dad. Somehow, I find it hard to believe that this is all true (or at least not blown way out of proportion). Okay, I did like writing stories a lot at school, I loved reading and I made stuff up a lot. But by no means I stubbornly insisted on being a writer when I grew up from the day I figured out how to string words into coherent sentences. I wanted to be an astronaut, a dancer, a singer, a pianist, an architect, and a fashion designer before I even considered becoming a professional writer. That wasn’t until I was eighteen, during my last year of school. I had to start thinking about what to do after graduation, whether to do an apprenticeship or go to uni, and if it turned out to be the latter, what major to choose. I had been writing (both fanfiction and original stories) for years then, and I thought, hey, if that’s what I’m good at, I might as well give it a try. So I went and studied Creative Writing (with a touch of journalism, because why the hell not). I had been writing with the goal of publication in mind for a while, but I didn’t consider it to be a surefire plan – there’s so much chance involved, that’d be silly. I planned on finding a part-time job, or even a regular day job, and write on the side, and if some day I could earn a living with it, well, cool bonus, bro. It wasn’t until six months ago, at the incredibly old age of 24, that I decided to become a full-time writer.
So, where does that leave me, according to the writers out there who apparently have it in their blood, because how else do you explain all those childhood stories full of, well, stories they wrote or told to entertain their kindergarten mates? Well, how the fuck would I know, I’m not one of them. My path through life has been anything but straightforward so far, not even my writing career, a mortal sin, it seems. I meandered around quite a bit, dropped the idea of becoming a writer altogether for a while, and it’s only now that I’m sure about what I really want. Does that make me less of a writer? A worse writer than those who have been “writers” all their life? Or is it just another way of finding your dream job, but one that doesn’t make for good publicity because it’s pretty boring and doesn’t have this ring of “destiny” about it?
Yeah, well, I strongly suspect it’s the latter. If those “I’ve written stories my whole life” people were completely honest in their biographies, those would read a little different – and probably boring, too. And a writer can’t possibly have a boring life, right? After all, we tell amazing stories and shit, so we can’t possibly be ordinary people with ordinary problems and biographies, right?
All righty, and because this was a tad rant-y, have some funny bits, too! :D
Today: How people find me on Google.
-“does the red graftti mean anything in hot fuzz” (okay, I get the Hot Fuzz part, but when did I mention graffiti, let alone ‘graftti’?)
-“horror movies with porn” (yeah, well, thanks for that one, I guess?)
-“humans suckig” (…how?!)
Sometimes, I really don’t want to know…