There is a question that I have asked myself time without number. 'Why do I write?' Followed closely by the subsequent 'Why do I care?'
As I navigate the world of Twitter and try to figure out how to actually get someone to read my blog(s) I am actually beset by something close to apathy. It is exhausting to me to think that day after day I must sell myself. I must push my words at people like an unwelcome fourth drink at a tasteful event. I feel pressure to squeeze my words into a size 2 so that no-one will realize that I'm not 26 anymore. Unfortunately there are no Spanx for writers, no Botox, no collagen injections. We have to constantly expose our flaws and then stand naked in hopes that the powers that be won't notice the cellulite. So why??? Why bother?
I don't know. The elusive dream of the contract is not actually on my radar anymore. I used to keep a scrapbook, kind of a bound vision board, and in it I glued my dreams together. One of them was a VW convertible. I promised myself that when I got published I would buy myself that car and that the license plate would read "Author". So many years have passed since I made that book. It seems silly. My husband suggested I get a plate that read "Arthur" instead. I laughed. 'Close enough,' I thought. And then it occurred to me that it really doesn't matter. Life is good. I write because I always have. I write because it is a part of me. But not every part of me has to be compensated to be legitimate. No-one pays me to be a wife or a mother and yet those are the roles that give me the most joy. If this means I never unearth the Holy Grail known as the literary agent so be it. I will continue to write simply because I don't know how not to. If there's no one to catch me when I fall that's okay. I'll survive.