Initially I put off sharing this as I didn't want any undue pressure; afraid that if I'd stated it then people would expect more than I could deliver, or that I'd let everyone down when I eventually gave up the pursuit. However, a month and a half in I'm a bit surer of myself now, even though I'm yet very much only a novice, and wanted to share it now as a way of fortifying my dedication; of closing off the exit and not allowing myself to back out, as it were. That said, I'm pleased to say that, as of mid December, I've been actively focused on writing for the first time since my freshman year of college when my delusions of grandeur nearly prompted me to major in English.
I've always wanted to write, but like many dreams I always thought myself too mediocre to get anywhere with it so I let it go and concentrated on more practical things (like art history). it was always there though, nagging me like an itch. I'd write little stories for friends on occasion, but more often only for myself as a way to vent my creative stockpile. Then I'd re-read them, come to the conclusion they were utter rubbish and burn not only them but anything they'd come into contact with for fear the terrible writing had left some wretched stigma on the paper, the desk, the printer or anything remotely near them. I don't know what I expected; I hadn't really put any effort into them and had ignored what I'd been told was natural proclivity (not saying I believe this) for years, so of course they were pretty awful. I constantly compared my writing with the writers I admired; Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, etc, which is a fairly masochistic practice; comparing your beginning work with that of someone who has honed theirs for nearly as long as you've been alive. This was recently pointed out to me, and I'm trying to keep it in mind.
So, I've rededicated myself to writing; fiction, non-fiction, short story, essay, poem (no songs; I'm no good at that and freely admit it. Thank me for sparing you). Basically I'll write whatever I feel with two ends in mind; either I succeed beyond my wildest dreams and am able to support myself entirely from writing alone, or, like many writers, I do it in the mornings before I go to work, or sneak in a few pages before bed; use up my days off to finish whatever it is I'm working on in the hopes that it will be published and read by someone. At the end of it, if its not read I don't really care because I'm doing it for my own sanity as much as I am my desire to be Neil Gaiman (I'm sure you're all well aware of how fervent that desire is). I've finished one short story since I began this in December and started nearly a dozen others I wouldn't allow myself to work on until the first one I started was completed as I didn't want a bunch of unfinished pieces around to discourage me. You cannot read this first one, because like any first attempt its likely pretty terrible. I'm okay with that; in fact I hope it is as constructive criticism is much more useful than obligatory praise (Jess has a copy and I await her response). As I get better, find my voice, I'll likely start sharing them and I'd be happy if you read them (happier still if you enjoyed them but I'm not promising anything there). Either way, its what I've been up to lately and is the reason for recent cryptic and cagey responses to "so, Justin, what are you up to other than work?" "Um....crocheting? Spelunking? Why; what have you heard?".
Lastly, I just want you to know that its all your fault, you bastards. I blame all of you for this foolhardy endeavor. All of you who are so inspiring with your amazing careers and your studies and your writing and your painting and your photography and your music and the million other things you do that make me so proud to call you friends and remind me that I should do more to be deserving of inclusion in such interesting and brilliant company (especially my loving, supportive and brilliant wife). Thank you and I'll try not to let you down.
I've always wanted to write, but like many dreams I always thought myself too mediocre to get anywhere with it so I let it go and concentrated on more practical things (like art history). it was always there though, nagging me like an itch. I'd write little stories for friends on occasion, but more often only for myself as a way to vent my creative stockpile. Then I'd re-read them, come to the conclusion they were utter rubbish and burn not only them but anything they'd come into contact with for fear the terrible writing had left some wretched stigma on the paper, the desk, the printer or anything remotely near them. I don't know what I expected; I hadn't really put any effort into them and had ignored what I'd been told was natural proclivity (not saying I believe this) for years, so of course they were pretty awful. I constantly compared my writing with the writers I admired; Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, etc, which is a fairly masochistic practice; comparing your beginning work with that of someone who has honed theirs for nearly as long as you've been alive. This was recently pointed out to me, and I'm trying to keep it in mind.
So, I've rededicated myself to writing; fiction, non-fiction, short story, essay, poem (no songs; I'm no good at that and freely admit it. Thank me for sparing you). Basically I'll write whatever I feel with two ends in mind; either I succeed beyond my wildest dreams and am able to support myself entirely from writing alone, or, like many writers, I do it in the mornings before I go to work, or sneak in a few pages before bed; use up my days off to finish whatever it is I'm working on in the hopes that it will be published and read by someone. At the end of it, if its not read I don't really care because I'm doing it for my own sanity as much as I am my desire to be Neil Gaiman (I'm sure you're all well aware of how fervent that desire is). I've finished one short story since I began this in December and started nearly a dozen others I wouldn't allow myself to work on until the first one I started was completed as I didn't want a bunch of unfinished pieces around to discourage me. You cannot read this first one, because like any first attempt its likely pretty terrible. I'm okay with that; in fact I hope it is as constructive criticism is much more useful than obligatory praise (Jess has a copy and I await her response). As I get better, find my voice, I'll likely start sharing them and I'd be happy if you read them (happier still if you enjoyed them but I'm not promising anything there). Either way, its what I've been up to lately and is the reason for recent cryptic and cagey responses to "so, Justin, what are you up to other than work?" "Um....crocheting? Spelunking? Why; what have you heard?".
Lastly, I just want you to know that its all your fault, you bastards. I blame all of you for this foolhardy endeavor. All of you who are so inspiring with your amazing careers and your studies and your writing and your painting and your photography and your music and the million other things you do that make me so proud to call you friends and remind me that I should do more to be deserving of inclusion in such interesting and brilliant company (especially my loving, supportive and brilliant wife). Thank you and I'll try not to let you down.