Making a move
I graduated from university four years ago.
I have dreamed my entire life about being a novelist — an honest-to-God, published storyteller.
I have been working on a story since high school, off and on. I started and finished plenty of others along the way, but I kept going back to this one particular story. It was so personal, so special.
But for the last four years, I have worked in various other forms of writer-ness — reporter, producer, blogger (no, not this one — a paid one!), script-writer, etc.
In fact, as my career progresses, I have been climbing the ladder as a producer — which is more mangement-y than creative-y.
I am still not a novelist, and I am not any closer than I was when I graduated four years ago.
Earlier this month, in a fit of what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life?
, I sat down and finished it. I typed the final words, re-read everything, printed out copies until my printer died, and distributed them to friends for proof-reading.
Last night, I took the next big step, and wrote my letter of inquiry. I decided I am going to try and get a literary agent, since most publishers won’t read unsolicited manuscripts. I’m so, so, so, so nervous that they will reject me, but I’m going to do it anyway. If my first choice says no, I’m moving on to my second choice.
I am filled with a new determination that I didn’t have before this year. If I can be a novelist, it will change everything. I will be able to make money doing something I love. I will be able to stay at home with our children, and work my writing into their schedule. I will get to realize the dream I have had since I picked up my first Baby-sitter’s Club book at age five.
I’m terrified, but I am positive that this is the right move for me.