This is my first attempt at a blog, and my first attempt at truly public writing. The two articles I had published years ago don’t count since no one read them anyway.
So don’t be cruel . . . oooo oooo oooo . . . to a heart that’s true . . . to writing, anyway. It’s been a hobby since I was seven and has increasingly become my life’s love.
Why? I’m not sure, but I think it’s because when I write, I can make the world the way I want it. There are no rules to follow (except grammar rules, and those can be bent) and no laws I need fear breaking. Not that I would anyway. I’m quiet, boring, the quintessential image of a pale writer sitting for hours in front of a computer screen (or just as commonly with a notebook in hand, luddite that I am) who knows words like “quintessential” and “luddite.” And who feels secure—or maybe rebellious—enough to misuse a word or two. (Nya Nya Nya Nya Nya so there.)
Of course, the image and the reality of a writer are usually quite different. My favorite authors have all turned out to be frighteningly normal, even the ones who write bloody death and squidgy S and M sex. But me? Nope, I fit the profile, stereotype, whatever you want to call it. I’m a geek and proud. Most Saturday nights I’d rather play with the characters in my head than go out and party.
I do on occasion miss human company, but since most of my friends have moved hundreds of miles away, my social contact is mostly limited to Facebook, Twitter, and my day job. It’s not that I NEVER get invited anywhere, but I have terrible luck when it comes to actually DOING something. I’m usually broke, or broke, or I might even be broke. If I’m not, then I can almost count on either me or someone else being sick on the day of any planned outing. Fortunately the non-human company in my stories keeps me interested, keeps me thinking, and keeps me sane. Sort of. Kind of.
Maybe not. I can’t tell any more.
Anyway, I think I’ve made the point I intended. I like to write. This blog will be about my writing and my terrifying journey into the world of self-publishing. My first foray is set for 01-13-13. Why that date? Because I like the number 13. Am I superstitious? Nope. I don’t mind black cats, if I break a mirror that’s just my usual clumsiness, and ladders don’t bother me. I just like the number—odd and misunderstood. Kinda sounds familiar.
I’m nervous about the publishing. It feels like loosing a child onto a cold, indifferent world without even a jacket. But if I don’t do it, what’s the point? A story that isn’t read isn’t a story, it’s just dead words. Hate me, love me, revile me, adore me, I don’t care. It’s my world, though I borrowed a bit of it from ol’ Will Shakespeare (Shush, Puck and Maclyn. You’re in my head, that makes it my world and my rules. Fine, we can argue about who owns what later. Right now, shut up.) but I’ll let you in for a little while if you want.