Here I go again... I have started my second unpublished novel in a series. I have written one hundred and eight pages into it.No one ever said writing is a rational occupation. It is a profession that lives on hope, little sleep, and less praise. One has to be a master of dreams to push on through the most dreary of situations. The bills, sick kids, ill self, lonely nights typing at the computer, the blank screen that does not cheer with its stare uncomprehending as a government form that asks "Well, what is your work?"
Let me think... I am the tender of imagination, the midwife of new beings in print, a guardian of a world.
Doesn't get one very far in the "real world". I usually scrawl "homemaker" on a form. "Writer" means, at least to the bureaucratic people that I know, 'unemployed person with an English degree'. Not very prestigious.
So what keeps me going and persisting and hoping to be published? Because my characters, those mischievous struggling (almost) human creatures I've known for all these years, make my life reflective and intellectually alive. If they died unwept, so would the part of my life that budges the humane in me. This keeps me going as a writer.
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