A friend interviewed me for his podcast and introduced me as a writer. When I scoffed sheepishly, he queried it (never misses an opportunity to hold me accountable to myself this Dude). I said that it just wasn’t where I was at, at the moment. Which got me to thinking: who AM I? How did I get into this mess? No, seriously – I started wondering what I was really doing as a writer and the answer is, right now, not very bloody much.
BUT (and there’s always a big but in my experience) I don’t think I am done with it. Because I love it. I love the idea of it:
I occasionally have the opportunity to discuss and encourage writing with young people (which I enjoy way more than I imagined).
I am obeying my personal rule of always, always having a book to read especially when I’m not writing (and the kids have given me the complete series of the Game of Thrones books to read which should keep me sorted for the next 12 years – thanks very much
Because of my goldfish-like memory and under advisement of my home technogeek SH, I have about seven apps too many that each have various random bits of weirdness in them, that possibly won’t make sense to anyone but me.
I have also got another three apps with further random weirdness that either I can’t recall how to access, or I can access them and they make no sense at all…possibly as a result of in the middle of the night typing….possibly.
And I have a story fledged back from the bastard NaNoWriMo some years ago, that is sitting like a red-headed stepchild feeling alone and unloved, in the recess of the computer or the icloud just waiting for me to give it a spruce and a kiss and a cuddle, and cheeses help me, one hell of a makeover before telling it that ‘Luke. I am your father’..What mixed metaphorses? Metaphori?
I don’t feel done..
Any tips or hints to keep my finger in the pie? Anyone else have their otherness on hold? Gah!