After twenty years or so writing with effort and commitment, with nearly 18 years of daily practice and millions of words behind me, I think I’m finally becoming a writer. Not that I wasn’t already, not that I didn’t call myself a writer and that others see me as one. But I mean, a REAL writer.
This became apparent to me at the writers conference I attended recently – the social convention there was not “what do you do?” as part of introductions but rather, “what do you write?”. I should have expected that – a conference full, mostly, of introverts like me who would far rather ask that question than answer, far rather talk about what they do than who they are. Yet I came away from several sessions and those awkward conversations with a far better sense of who I am, of what I write and how to move forward. My energy level in recent weeks has soared. My writing output has been about the same, but my re-writing and plot-tweaking has been fueled by creative juices.
I think fiction writing is the most socially acceptable form of self-reflection and revelation – because it is done to an imaginary person created on a page, their pains and foibles appear so real because they are reflective of real pain the author has experienced or seen, but they are hidden within fiction on the page – the writer’s experiences and aspirations they’d never tell out loud speak volumes from ink on paper …
Which makes we wonder, if you created a grocery store for writers, if the hottest thing on the shelves wouldn’t be Creative Juice?