It is eight o'clock on a Tuesday evening. And where am I right now?
Sitting at my desk, watching the sun set over the tiny patch of ocean that can be seen from my window and wondering why am I still bothering to do this. By this I mean, my blog, my books, my facebook page, anything else that is even vaguely associated with writing or the written word. Or more to the point, my written words.
Who am I? What am I doing, really? I slave away at this, feverishly writing, meticulously editing and doing my best to promote my work in an already saturated market, filled with indie writers, many of them far more extroverted and willing to put it all out there than I. And I cannot, simply cannot imagine life any other way. I love what I do. I love expressing my internal thoughts, fears and feelings through the written word. I love to write about the things that I have read and the things that have somehow captured my imagination. Sometimes I write to make sense of various events that have occurred in my life. And I love to be read. I love it when others can make sense of, and relate to my words.
But is my writing any good?
Who knows? I'm too close to it to answer that objectively.
And what will the future bring?
I don't have the answer to that, either.
And as I have said, the market is already saturated. Sure there is only one of me. Sure no one else writes quite like me. But that doesn't mean the publishing industry wants me.
No one has to publish my work, anyway. That is their business decision to make. They don't owe me anything.
Sometimes, I think life would have been a lot easier if I had been born with a passion for something practical, like hairdressing or fixing cars. Or even accounting. But no. From the moment I picked up a pencil all I wanted to do is write. And I guess I am doing that, in my own, funny little way.