As part of my quest to branch out from poetry to short fiction, I subscribe to Daily Science Fiction. If you like to read short, speculative pieces, I highly recommend joining their mailing list.
However, despite close and careful study, I haven’t yet cracked DSF as a writer. So I usually read the authors’ notes after each piece, curious about those who have broken through. Recently, I saw a story by James S. Dorr, a name familiar to me because of his involvement with science fiction poetry.
My thought upon reading the man’s name was, “Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s a real writer.”
And then I stopped. I sat there, dumbfounded. “Wow. Did I really just think that?”
Because the implication here is obvious: at a subconscious level, I don’t see myself as a writer. Not a real one, anyway.
How is this possible?
For eight years, I wrote government reports professionally. I penned a weekly green living newspaper column for a year. My poetry has been published internationally. My work can be found in anthologies. I’ve even won writing awards.
None of that matters to my subconscious, apparently. I still don’t qualify.
Is it because I write fan-fiction? Because I haven’t published a book (even though I’ve been included in a few)? Because I can’t pay the bills with my words? Because I’m desperately insecure and needy?
What is it going to take to convince myself that I am a real writer? That all of us who pick up a pen or tap on our iPads with the intent to communicate are real writers?
Real writers write. Period. That’s it. There are no other qualifications for entry.
Now, if I could just convince myself of that …
(Clearly, I need coffee. Real writers sit in coffee shops, right?)
P.S. BTW, my congrats and a hat tip to James S. Dorr. My subconscious says that you have arrived. 😉