I am the little sister in the mosaic of my family.  With that title comes a certain reputation: the spoiled one, the brat.  I'm sure my siblings would agree with that stereotype.  I even agree.  It's okay.  I've accepted it because, hey, it's okay to be spoiled.  Being the baby also comes with its own set of negatives, though.  Even though I'm mumble-mumble-mumble years old now, I'm still widely viewed as twelve years old.  

As a perennial tweenager, clearly I do not have a career.  How could I?  I'm a child!  All of my years of working with expectant families hasn't counted as a legitimate job.  Writing certainly doesn't count, either, because I write in my pajamas while my kids (and usually other neighborhood kids) destroy my house.  Plus, I like writing.  People don't like their jobs.  That's against the rules.

But writing is what I want to do with my life.  It is what I want as my career, but I don't want to call it my career because that word just sucks the joy out of all of it.  But this is what I do.  

I didn't go to college and rack up student loans to learn how to write.  I didn't intern anywhere to prove myself.  I merely sat down with a laptop and the words in my head and let them fly off into the atmosphere.  Most days it feels like I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but the words are finding other people and doing something so unimaginably far beyond me.  

This is real.  It doesn't feel real at all, but it's real.

Half of my family and a great deal of my friends don't really understand the person I've become.  They don't appreciate the long nights composing sentences and developing characters.  They don't care.  Well, maybe they care, but in that disjointed way someone pretends to be interested so feelings won't be hurt.  Truth be told, they don't have time for books, they'd rather save themselves the trouble and wait for the movie adaptation.  If I waited for these people to open their eyes and see that this is important, even as their 9-5 office job is important, I'd be waiting a long time.  Forever, maybe.  

Is that discouraging?  Sure.  But I don't let it stop me.  I pick myself up, knock the dust off my sandals, and find people who want to support me--and people I will support in return.  My Cartel.  My Skywriters. My posse.  My kindred spirits.
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Conditions will never be 100% perfect for me to write, and people in my own village will never fully respect me because they see me that same old bumbling kid, but I'm doing this anyway.  


What about you?  Do your friends and family support your writing or your career goals?

Daniel the Draw-er is my first published book, and my first self-published book.  It goes without saying that I'm working out my marketing plan as I go, seeing what helps and what doesn't.  I hope you don't mind being a part of my wily schemes and wacky experiments.  You don't?  Good!  We'll get along just fine, then.

For the next 21 days, you can download a PDF or .mobi (for Kindles or Kindle apps) for free, in exchange for your reviews.  The Story Cartel is a great site for helping authors with exposure, and I hope you'll be a part of this adventure!

Please share with your family or friends!  That's the only way to get my story into the hands of kids all over the world.  Thanks, friends!

Download "Daniel the Draw-er" at Story Cartel Now!

Nothing I've written is remotely near being ready to publish.  There are sentences to weed and phrases to prune.  Characters to cultivate or burn away, the choice is up to me.  Plots need water or redirection like vines on a trellis.  In other words, a ton of gardening.

Have I mentioned I'm not particularly great at keeping green things green?  Gardening is a bad metaphor.

This week I gave myself the option of writing or not writing, editing or not editing.  Laying in bed catching up on bad t.v. and afternoon naps instead of deadlines and writer's block.  Staying up late watching Conan because I can or going to bed obscenely early because there's no word count left.  My break should be refreshing.  My synapses should be snoozing so they can return ready to fire more quickly and easily.  But no....  That's not what's happening.

Instead, my stomach is churning with each day that passes in which no forward progress has been made on my dream.  I don't like being in limbo.  I don't want to rush this thing, but I hate being suspended in this void.

I'm reading to distract myself, to refuel my creativity and see how others more successful than myself spin a tale.  Apparently it's not working, because instead of losing myself in these books, I push my way through each one.  My brain is persistant, nudging me every few pages.  "Pssst!  Hey!  If she can do this, so can you!"

My husband is not helping.  "Finish that book yet?"  Every. Single. Time. He. Walks. In. The. Door.  I love him, I do.  But sometimes, I loathe him.

Mommy Dearest isn't helping, either.  When I described to her why I was overwhelmed about editing my first book (a.k.a. "The Book Written Entirely In Passive Voice"), she shocked me by telling me I was probably over-analyzing my book.  A few minor changes,she said, and I would think it's ready to go!  She's my mama.  It's written into her job description to believe I can do no wrong--except for that typo on page 35 and the other one on page 110--but it's still strange to have her on more of an accelerated timeframe than myself.  I probably owe her money.

It's all about patience.  When God handed out patience, I think I was in the back of the line, and by the time I reached the front, there were only crumbs left in the bag.  "Here."  I imagine God said as he dropped the specks of patience in my palm.  "Good luck with that.  And, remember, 'thou shalt not kill'."  Then He walked away bent over in hysterical laughter.  To make it even more hilarious, He pumped my veins full of the blood of Irish, Scottish, and German ancestors.  Well-played, God.  Welllllll-played.

On top of it all, the crazy (and not-so-crazy) thought occurred to me to write the third installment first just to see if I could and the stars aligned.  And by "stars aligned", I mean "does any of this make a lick of sense?"  If I chose to write more now, I would need to find another place to live because I am pretty sure that would be the end of my marriage, right there.  My husband's already convinced these books will never see the light of day past my computer screen and I'm just pretending to write. 

So, yeah.  There's a lot of pressure.  From books that aren't but very well could be my own...  From my well-meaning (but adolescent) husband...  From my usually well-planned but impetuous mother.  But mostly, and most deeply, from my own self. 

I'm not letting anyone talk me into putting anything out there before it's really and truly time, but I sure hope this feeling of suffocation decides to leave me soon.

Since deciding to pursue writing last year, I have been anxious to learn more about the practice of writing--the habits, struggles, and other odd things that make up this calling.  I enjoy reading other books now to see how authors describe characters and paint their worlds.  Lately I've been reading nearly as much as I've been writing, which I consider refueling and instruction.  As I was riding home from a family Christmas meal this evening, I began re-reading Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" on my Christmas present, my awesomely awesome Kindle Fire HD.

Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it.  Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day.  The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline:  Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves?  Nah....  Totally not a dream. 

What I loved most was reading about her background.  Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work.  She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions.  That sounds vaguely familiar.

While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing.  The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future.  Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive.  Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess. 

And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure.  For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason.

Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those....  I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud."

Ouch. 

Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters.  I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to.  Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work.  Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core. 

Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there?  I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt.