Original Post Date March 06, 2013 at 07:50 PM
The definition of author proofed by superhuman attributes.
“I’m an author.”
The words tumbled out of my mouth like house keys in front of the door from an errant hand. As subconscious as the reflex which captured the keys before they hit the floor.
I am an author.
Granted, I was speaking to someone gathering information to assess an insurance quote, but the exchange held significance.
We are conditioned to announce titles only if bestowed by society. I am not big on waiting for social acknowledgement.
I write, therefore I am.
If you would have asked me a year ago this month, I would have entered into some haphazard diatribe about a dream deferred and coming out of the darkness and other sad cliches, then have petered out with a disillusioned whimper. The curse of the shadow artist. The artist lives, but we’re too afraid to admit it. Why?
This comes natural to me.
In November 2012, I participated in National Novel Writing Monthhttp://nanowrimo.org/en and won! The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words – think “The Great Gatsby” – in thirty days. I did it in nineteen.
I didn’t write poppycock either. I had colleagues read my rough and their critiques were in the neighborhood of repairable grammar. Bragging? Might as well. I’ve never had an issue producing written works. Which is why I don’t understand how college students can’t hammer out a simple 200-word essay. I can be drunk, high, with a hand tied to a foot, and it would be cherry!
Longhand used to be my preferred method, but like most cyborgs, overuse of a particular assembly results in ugly wear and tear. Adamantium arm in backorder. Before my hand literally curls shut, I can compose on average twenty pages front and back on college ruled paper, about 5,000 words in one session.
To counter my withering instrument, I work in a sweet wireless setup on my couch opposite a 50″ screen. This allows me stellar witching hour compositions in my jimmy jams.
As any warrior poet knows, a pen and notebook should always be at the ready, at the waist or to the back. You never know when inspiration strikes. This particular entry was drafted under a clear blue Saint Petersburg sky and proofed at Taco Bus.
No, I did not buy that insurance policy. But she hung up the phone noting she completed a conversation with Ivonne, the author. She probably slept peacefully that night.
This is my station in life. I am quite comfortable here.