Past couple weeks, I've felt more like a "real" writer than I have in a while.
I put the real in quotes for my good friend Nate who frequently tells his writing students that they're all real writers. The only qualification needed is to write, and I definitely am doing that again. Society often paints the picture of a writer as someone who does magical, unexplainable work, someone who goes off into a room to be fed by his muse. In reality, though, a successful writer is just one who didn't quit.
Well, I certainly haven't quit. The new novel is clipping along, intruded on by life circumstances, but moving nonetheless. I'm one of those writers who carries on forward without looking back much until I'm done, but what I've written so far feels good, feels alive. I've already had a couple small surprises in these chapters, and I'm looking forward to many more along the path.
The other half of that "real" is that whole publication thing. Having sent off my last batch of agent letters, the reality of the writing life is settling in... in the form of rejection letters. Some nibbles here and there, some promising signs, but now I must remind myself what a long road I've know this will be--and that's not even counting the seven years it took to write the novel.
In any case, I'm off to the store and then back to write this evening, hopefully finishing out another chapter. It feels good to be a writer. Yes, it does.