Here it is, we’ve finally reached that horrifying, satisfying achievement. I am now writing about writing about writing. Dear God, what have I done.
Some context: I have a few drafts in the works for future blog posts where I examine emotional investment and being cruel to your characters, curating the perfect writing playlist and the healing action of writing terrible poetry.
Go to any writing blog and you can find thousands of posts just like these, self-congratulatory manifestos promising that if you just follow these three easy steps, you too will be a good writer!
I hate them.
I love them.
I am them.
I have the teensiest, tiniest bit of professional writing experience. I am in no position to be telling anybody how they should write, or what they should be writing about. So why am I doing it?
Am I self-actualizing, writing what I assume writers write so that one day I magically am a self-sufficient writing writer? Or is this just… practice.
Practice for that day when I can confidently say that I’m an actual writer. Practice in condescension, in superiority. Do I write in the sincere hope that someone will take my advice and create something beautiful, or do I write to beef up an anemic author-bio delivery mechanism that is the self-titled website, in the desperate hope that people will think I am a ~real~ writer.
What am I doing here?
I have no answers for the questions that I ask myself.
A Writer who has Injured her Back and whose Brain is Fuzzy on Muscle Relaxers
P.S. Yes, that is a “Part I” in the title. There will be more of these, I apologize in advance for my ramblings.