The Web Haunt of Ryan K Lindsay

I forget sometimes that I am a writer. It’s not that I want to be a writer, or that someday I will be a writer. No. I AM a writer. I write pretty much every day. My acts of writing makes me a writer. I am not a published writer but that shouldn’t stop me classifying correctly what I am. I write = I am a writer.

How do I know I am a writer? Because each and every morning I look forward to opening the laptop, firing it up and going to Recent Items; there I am greeted by the documents that I have been immersing myself in of late. There are also some pics of my Italy holiday and books I am reading, but there’s a few Word documents. I open them up, I get back to the page I am on and I wonder what will come next; a conversation, a description, an action packed scene of space violence and crazy science. It’s fun being in my head most days.

When I tell some people about what I am I feel kinda foolish. Like telling them I want to be a model, or an actor. It sometimes feels like a silly dream, something that idiots with both feet out of reality want and kind of dedicate their time to, but know will never come to them but it beats admitting that you are what you are. A brickie, or a taxi driver, or a telemarketer, or in my case, a teacher. I feel like I am different, but I guarantee that so does every other schmoe who’s got a few chapters saved away somewhere on his external hard drive.

I have wanted to be a writer for about as long as I can remember. In Year 3 I said I would be a teacher, if I couldn’t write. That year I also penned two atrocious short stories, but I knew I was on my way. I was reading everything Roald Dahl had ever put to paper, and by the next year I would be dipping my toe into a love affair with Stephen King’s text that would last each and every year, except one, up to the current day. I read and always find myself wondering if I could do that too. Could I have created that story. And now, with much more knowledge in my head, I hope, I analyse story structure, language and plot and wonder if I could keep up with those other lucky buggers getting published.

I am a writer. This is not an idle threat to my day job, this is who I am. Every morning I rise at about 5am, depending on the cold and how many snoozes I can press (one morning I mentally pestered myself out of bed by repeating the phrase, “This is me exerting willpower, this is me exerting willpower, this is me exerting willpower,” until I got up, annoyed with myself), and I get to work on my trusty and lovable metallic and portable sidekick, the laptop. I work for a few hours each morning, then a few hours that afternoon/night. On the holidays, as I currently in, I use pretty much all day to write. The last three days have seen me proofing my first novel (the one that I wrote first). It has taken three days, but I have read my entire first novel, which was about 480 pages, or so. I have fixed up some spelling/grammatical mistakes, I have reworded certain parts, and I have even added a completely new chapter to fill a hole. It has been a fun and busy three days.

I finished this novel just about six months ago. In the interim I have written, proofed, and sent off another novel (In Ten City) and started a sci-fi novel, about 60 pages into it. I have plotted out the rough parts for another novel, one that I may even write before I go back to the sci-fi kick, depends on how it all flows, I guess. So six months have passed, and I have finally gotten back to that first mistress. And I liked her. She made me laugh and that was a good thing. I didn’t cringe too much at her postures and airs of graces. I found a few flaws, but nothing as bad as I thought it was going to be. I am very happy with it, and will give it another polish very soon, well before another six months pass. Then, I guess I start the hunt for a literary agent, that seems like the logical next step.

Do I have fears that it’s not good enough to be published? Sure, who wouldn’t. I am not so foolish as to think myself bulletproof. I really would love it to sell, but I am realistic. It cannot happen for every person the first time.

If it doesn’t publish, will I kill myself stop writing? Absolutely not. How can a writer stop writing? It is something that I do with my days, it is something I do in my head at all times. Wherever I am, I will at some stage see something or hear something that will make me think of my true calling. I’ll file something away and use it later to full effect in a story.

I have to come to grips with the fact that I am a writer. I have written lots of things, and am now getting to that end game period where I will be putting who I am out in the spotlight of some people’s lives. It is scary, but it is necessary. I write to please myself, and I live to see that pleasure put into other people. (Yeah, I just said I wanted to put my pleasure into other people, how awesome!)

I want this to happen, that’s why I spend so many hours of each day doing it. I could be kicking back and reading all of the quality books I have yet to get to, or watching the movies and teev shows that I have to catch up on, but I don’t. I write, because that’s what a writer should always do.

Posted on July 7th, 2009 by ryan
Filed under: Writing