Tuesday, February 5, 2013
if the only thing between you and everbody else is a thin layer of gabardine...
It must be laundry day.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
evolution
I've always written.
There are dairies from childhood and journals of teen angst and volumes that chronicle my journey.
There are articles that have been commissioned, sold and published. It has been a part of making a living.
There are so many files, folders, scraps of paper, note books of unfinished works. An entire book of short stories splintered off from an unfinished novel with too many points of view.
In the past, when someone asked me what I do, I have often struggled with the label. I had it down to "I work in the arts and entertainment industry", which seemed a broad enough umbrella. Depending on the context or capacity in which I was working at the time, I have confidently broken it down to "actor", "singer", "director" or even, at times "I write". But have never said the words "I am a writer"
It always seemed rather fraudulent to wear that mantle when I didn't spend all my time working on it. I know writers, I know the dedication they have to the craft. In my case writing, or creative writing at least, was a hobby.
But yesterday, yesterday I felt like a writer. I remember the exact moment.
I was standing in the post office. I had just asked to have my envelope visibly post-marked. For the first time in my life, I entered a writing competition.
The submission date was yesterday, and I wasn't sure I could work those 1200-1500 words in just a couple of days. But I took one of the unfinished stories and whittled away at words, to craft my piece of creative nonfiction.
The feeling of actually finishing a story was close to euphoric. That helped with the shift, for sure. It inspired me to want to do more, to spend all my time giving life to the rest of my narratives. I felt excited by the possibilities.
I printed it off and filled out the entry form. At the post office I turned my twenty-five dollars into a money order entry fee. At that moment, when the postal clerk asked "Who should I make it out to?" and I said CBC Nonfiction Prize, I felt a surge. It was like something was pushed into the right place.
At that moment, if anyone asked me what I do, I would have confidently said "I'm a writer".
There are dairies from childhood and journals of teen angst and volumes that chronicle my journey.
There are articles that have been commissioned, sold and published. It has been a part of making a living.
There are so many files, folders, scraps of paper, note books of unfinished works. An entire book of short stories splintered off from an unfinished novel with too many points of view.
In the past, when someone asked me what I do, I have often struggled with the label. I had it down to "I work in the arts and entertainment industry", which seemed a broad enough umbrella. Depending on the context or capacity in which I was working at the time, I have confidently broken it down to "actor", "singer", "director" or even, at times "I write". But have never said the words "I am a writer"
It always seemed rather fraudulent to wear that mantle when I didn't spend all my time working on it. I know writers, I know the dedication they have to the craft. In my case writing, or creative writing at least, was a hobby.
But yesterday, yesterday I felt like a writer. I remember the exact moment.
I was standing in the post office. I had just asked to have my envelope visibly post-marked. For the first time in my life, I entered a writing competition.
The submission date was yesterday, and I wasn't sure I could work those 1200-1500 words in just a couple of days. But I took one of the unfinished stories and whittled away at words, to craft my piece of creative nonfiction.
The feeling of actually finishing a story was close to euphoric. That helped with the shift, for sure. It inspired me to want to do more, to spend all my time giving life to the rest of my narratives. I felt excited by the possibilities.
I printed it off and filled out the entry form. At the post office I turned my twenty-five dollars into a money order entry fee. At that moment, when the postal clerk asked "Who should I make it out to?" and I said CBC Nonfiction Prize, I felt a surge. It was like something was pushed into the right place.
At that moment, if anyone asked me what I do, I would have confidently said "I'm a writer".
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