I turned 40 this week (pipe down, I’m not fishing for B-day wishes, just pointing it out). In the grand tradition of turning the Big Four…Oh, it seemed like time to take stock, and to assemble a sort of personal inventory of the things I think I know about myself by this advanced age. The things I know about myself as a writer and reader, I mean. Who the heck wants to go down that dark path of a full-blown personal inventory, with the scratching trees and the slippery mud and what not? Continue reading “A Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man.”
Tag: writers
Future Readers
My daughter loves to read books together. And she loves pretending to read. And she likes to write. Keep in mind she’s three, so we’re not talking Great American Novel yet. She makes a mean ‘F’. It warms the cold, bitter cockles of my heart. She likes that there are pictures of me in the back of some books, and she likes the songs I write her.
The reason I am thinking about my daughter is because I realized the other day that at some point in the future she will want to read what I have written. It is going to be a very eye-opening day. To say the least.
The Difference Between a Writer and an Author
Every once in a while, I see the question brought up in a Facebook discussion group, or posed even here on the blog. There are those who equate the word author with only the highest literary form. The word writer is reserved for the next echelon of those who sully the art for mere profit, writing populist tripe about sparkly vampires and little boys going off to some sorcerer’s academy. But at least these were published by a genuine traditional publishing house.
Then, I suppose, are we mere doodlers and scribblers—little better than chimps with keyboards, the indies. We are the “Cousin Eddie” of the entire tradition. No respectable publisher would have us. Why don’t we just die? Oh, the humanity. Continue reading “The Difference Between a Writer and an Author”
Who’s got your six?
Recently, I got very down. This happens. I get depressed sometimes when we run out of milk. This time, however, I got depressed because writing began to seem futile.
Let me clarify…writing is like breathing…sharing it seemed futile. But something happened. Something that needs to happen for all of us. A lot of people bitch-slapped me verbally…some threatened actual physical harm.
I got to thinking about all that is involved in being an Indie writer. I won’t lie. Part of me yearns for the days when I had a regular paycheck and good insurance and my friend Pat liked my stories a lot. I hate promoting. But promotion has an interesting fallout effect. It works – we hope, but more importantly, it builds community.