When I took up writing again after my diagnosis, my goal was like a goldfish.
It was little and messy and cute, and I was drawn to it by an impulse.
I wanted to be published. I wanted my name chiseled into the stone of literature. That sounds big, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to be called Writer. To be able to answer the question, “So, what do you do?”, at parties again.
I sold a story, and my goldfish grew.
I decided I wanted to write a book. Just one. I wanted to walk into a library and find my name on the shelf nestled between all the other brave souls who’d had the same goal.
I chose historical fiction. If you know me, you aren’t surprised I thought I could pull off historical fiction with my first attempt at novel-writing. I am nothing if not hungry.
Then, I went to a SF&F writing convention. I realized what I really wanted to write was fantasy. For kids. For all the ten-year old loners out there who need wonder and magic, and who are also hungry.
I’m now on my fourth manuscript. Let me clarify: that’s four different stories, not one written four times. I’ve published two praying-hands full of work online and in print.
I’ve hired a writing coach. I self-published a book of poetry. I have a Patreon where I share poems and dreams and my writing woes and wins, and this allows me to stretch even farther!
I am a Writer.
My goldfish is so big now, I keep it in the bathtub.
(a fish out of water)
You can do this. Whatever the thing. No matter how small and messy or big and boisterous. Feed it. Whisper your love to it. Let it grow. Don’t let it scare you!