A Writer

I am a Writer, did you guys know that? I’ve tweeted here and there about it, but I’m working on a book. It’s for work, so not the Great American Novel or anything like that, but it’s going to be, like, a real, buy-it-on-Amazon book.

So, in the interest of mental and professional practice, I’ve been making an effort to *write* more. Work has been generally good, but with so much reading and outlining (pretty much the EXACT way I was taught to do research in high school, btw), I quickly get glazed over. I mean, it utilizes my mind and I’m learning oh-so-much in doing all of this, but I almost feel like I need to take stretching breaks for my mind or something to make sure it’s continually engaged. I’ve been prone to zoning out, I’m afraid.

And, (hopefully), the writing phase will begin on the book soon and I’ll be frantically busy, needing every moment to be full of good, coherent words that are going toward the end goal: book. My theory is that coming in to work and writing for 10 min here (or on my private work blog I don’t share with anyone cause it’s just a lot of bitching, really) will, to use a ridiculous college drinking euphemism, sort of “break the seal” and get the thoughts flowing to the fingers.

Besides that, writing has always centered me and helped me to move past things that are on my mind… bring on the catharsis.

It’s weird, being a writer. It’s weird because it’s what I’ve pretty much always wanted to be, and now I am one. It’s almost like being an actor or a princess – you can’t just say “Oh, I’m a writer,” without feeling like you have to qualify it somehow. “Oh, I just write technical documents.” “I’m writing a book, but it’s a boring research book, not a novel.” Despite all of those disclaimers, my job is “writer” now. I love it, actually, and having this level of professional fulfillment is something I’m completely unaccustomed to.

I guess I’ll have to find other stuff to complain about.