Writers tend to be introverts. Many authors are introverts who’ve learned to talk to strangers. I’m a writer now, but I want to be an author. This isn’t going to be easy.
Warning: This isn’t one of my typical feel-good posts. I debated not posting it at all, to be honest, because it seems so different from my usual message of “Be true to yourself and just keep moving forward.”
That’s not to say this post is irrelevant. It’s very relevant to me and others who share similar experiences. It’s a part of who I am as much as the happy-go-lucky stuff is.
I need to share this. Why? Well, because it’s something that… Well, let’s just say it’s eating at me.
‘Tis the season to dream and dwell on the joys of life!
Me, well, I love to write. LOVE IT! It brings me personal peace and rejuvenates my soul when I commit ideas to screen or paper. It’s an obsession, an addiction.
You don’t have to taste the water to know why this river is called Salt. You can feel the soft film of it on your skin. You can smell it in the soil as it beats against the shore. I always leave this place dirty, but never dissatisfied.
There’s something that’s been bothering me for a few days:
Game of Thrones.
Now, I don’t mean the television show or the fact that one of my favorite characters has made it this far only to be mercilessly cut down (shouldn’t be surprised). I really don’t even mean the books. What’s bothering me is the writer: George R. R. Martin—how he’s being mauled by ravenous expectations.
Now is the summer of my discontent.
This is the time of year that I loathe above all others. While people in non-desert locales complain of 80-degree temperatures mixed with (arguably heavy) moisture, the people of the Sonoran try desperately to avoid passing out in 108 degrees with little relief on the horizon. It’s especially difficult this year. The heat came in like a fire bolt. Frankly, none of us would survive here without the miracle of modern refrigeration. But even with that comfort, I am a miserable, dried husk of a person. I’m made even more miserable because that is not my normal state. I like to move. I like to explore. And I like having possession of all of my faculties. Summers have longer days, but it feels as if time has been sapped from us. Some people adapt better than others. I’ve been here for 20 years; I’m working on it.
2014 was a heck of a year and it ended with a nice climax for me. I finished my Master of Liberal Studies program in December and published my first nonfiction book. I was ecstatic when I received the printed copies of my nearly 2-years-worth of effort. To hold something you created in your hands is joy; it reminds you that you are capable of so much. Now that the graduation smoke has cleared and the holiday chaos has passed, I’m left with a burning philosophical question: Now what? Now what do I do?