Writing is not my day job. Surprise! Even more surprising: I’m not terribly fond of my day job. Most of my time is occupied doing stuff that largely doesn’t matter to me so I can pay for the things that do. Right now, the only thing that does make me feel like I’ve accomplished something at the end of the day is writing, and I don’t get paid anything to do it. But I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop.
But, of course, you can’t stop either. Can’t stop reading. Can’t stop yourself from searching for the next intense short story, the next novel that takes you to a wholly separate world, just as real as our own. I know because I’ve got the same problem. So we’re in this together, bound by an inevitable symbiosis. Neither of us can walk away from this linguistic detente. A kind of mutually assured literacy. That seems like some serious business. And that’s how I need to take it: seriously.
But that doesn’t mean everything I write has to be serious. Most of what I’ve already posted here is some seriously goofy shit, and there’s more weirdness where that came from. I tend to favour pretty dark comedy, so there’ll be plenty of serious mixed with plenty of humour, light-hearted or otherwise.
I stole a good chunk of time this week writing a couple of really short and simple bits of fiction. They’re a long way from being anything complete or coherent, but it was more of a mental warm up exercise. I don’t write nearly regularly enough, so I figured if I just picked a different idea each day and started putting words down I could get into the habit. Plus, doing something creative right under the watching eyes of my ‘Boss’ made it twice as satisfying. A reverse vandal, carefully creating something without anyone noticing.
Now the only thing left to do is get so good that people want to pay me to keep doing in it.