Obviously I like to write, or I wouldn’t be here and as voluminous as I often become. Blogging, though, it’s more like journaling, journalism, letters, idle commentary, that sort of thing. (Well, I suppose there might be bloggers who don’t care about writing, but then why bother? Perhaps just for money, prestige, or some other purpose besides rather than in addition to pure joy.)
Over the years I have thought about authoring books or other stories. Dating back to late high school, the idea was there, but I dismissed it for lack of ideas. I had business ideas, their own form of fiction, but was at a complete loss for stories, barring some vague notion of the woods around my house, as it had existed when I was younger, as a fantasy setting. Never did let go of that entirely.
Some years later, after I’d eventually attended college and scrabbled my way through the bulk of it, I began oozing ideas frantically. Much of it was inspired by something about my mental state driving around and delivering newspapers in the wee hours on too little sleep. The world is another planet at four AM. My mind? Always another planet.
Never did anything with the ideas, besides distract myself for a few years, thinking writing might be what I ought to do for a living, while failing to make a living in amongst the dreams, and feeling daunted by the realization just how much work and creative energy writing would entail.
I did end up periodically falling into writing as some aspect of a job not inherently about writing. At one support job it was documentation. At another it was newsletters, training materials and, most of all, written tech support in an early web-based form. That last was what made a name for me at that job. It always made me unnaturally happy. For me it’s the preferred way to express myself, convey information, and so forth.
Moving forward more years, I’ve been in business, gone out of business, done pretty much everything wrong in said business and staying nominally in it through sheer inertia, and awkwardly moved on from there. For “leading indicator of an extreme economic crash” values of moving on. Along the way I started blogging, became modestly “blog famous” before fading from view, and became intensely unhappy at ceasing to blog regularly and relatively unfiltered. Yeah, dirty secret is I find the fame part strangely appealing for an introvert, but I could remain less discovered than I was for a time and be far happier blogging up a storm than not.
If I love writing that much, if I have so much to say, why not the whole book thing?
Why not indeed. This is the day of gaining an audience and making money self-publishing low price eBooks, bypassing the traditional publishing hoops.
As it turns out, my experience in business has left the idea of writing a factual, cautionary book about my experiences gnawing at my brain, striving for attention.
I finally started writing yesterday, putting forth 1337 words during part of the afternoon with the cooperation of the kids. A decent start, if a long way to go. I’m trying not to get bogged down in too much detail, aided by the fact my memory of every last detail has faded wth time. As long as what happened can be described and lessons conveyed, that is the main thing. I could write the same thing as a series of blog posts, no doubt, but I’d like it to be a more formal, complete work.
This could get interesting. Today I’ve had little time for such things. In fact, I could have worked on it instead of typing this, but for this I expected to have a fraction of the time I’ve spent, and expected itwould be correspondingly briefer. Silly me, expecting that I’d be brief.
I’ll try to report my progress regularly, in an effort to keep myself engaged and on track. If this flies, who knows… perhaps there could be fiction in my future after all.