Yesterday I got caught up in the buisness end of writing. Looking around, as any responsible adult should, to assure that I was aware of all my options. This is a good thing. Writing is art, and the labor of my heart, but I'm not fooling myself...it's a business too.
I spent hours, quite literally, looking into what made more sense for me fiscally, both in the short and long term.
The only conclusion I came to was that I need to spend more time writing and less time looking at fiscal matters.
I think I got a little over fifty words written on my WIP. Oh, and I managed to feel both bitchy, and irritated at the world in general.
So today I'm going to write. I'll take some time before bed to do a little more research on the business end of things. I'll look at the option of getting a literary agent (because it's another option I should at least be aware of), and maybe tomorrow ask some fellow writers for their input as to what has worked best for them, and why.
But not today.
Today I write.
Because what keeps me sane, what brings me joy, what makes sense of the madness of the world about me is that I'm a writer. It doesn't matter if I'm writing stories, or songs, or letters to friends. I have a quiet voice that wakes me from within in the dead of night crying out to be heard (I know, that was a serious mangling of a bit of one of Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet), and I must give heed to that voice.
Because, in the end? It all boils down to this...I am what I was born to be, with no more choice in the matter than I have over the natural color of my eyes or hair. I can be a miserable one who does not express what is inside, or a joyous one who gives voice to all the creativity burbling within me...at the beginning, end and every point in-between of any given day, what I am is a Writer:a person who commits her thoughs, ideas, etc., to writing.