I fell down a dangerous rabbit hole today, one that’s littered with entries from a big-bad computer file known as Random Writing From the Last 20 Years.
I’ve poked around in this file from time to time, but today, I actually read some stuff, and all I have to say is I need to put someone in charge of deleting that file after I die. Like, that needs to happen before ANYTHING else, even before removing the green velvet pouch I keep in my bottom dresser drawer and tossing it over a bridge. (Do you hear that, my dear BFF?)
Yes, my writing has certainly improved over the last 20 years, but honestly, that’s not saying much if you could see the shit circa 1995.
We’re talking I’m still putting two spaces after a period and every single piece includes a thinly veiled version of my ex-boyfriend, you know The One. And, of course, I’m in every piece as well, even though it’s supposed to be FICTION. Not to mention all the freakin’ cats.
So, how do you know you’ve made it as a writer or that you’re a “real” writer? You can write through anxiety, depression, vertigo, butt aches, back aches, family aches and you stop writing yourself and your stupid broken heart into every goddamn story.
People, here’s what I’m saying: my writing about old lady serial killers who murder babies is PROGRESS.
That’s my measuring stick, anyway.