I hate authors who think I have any interest at all in their lives. Maybe hate is too strong a word. It’s just that I’m more interested in their stories than I am in them. That’s all. Anyway, I’ve been reading Konrath’s blog, which I highly recommend for anyone interested in the self-publishing industry, for a year or so now and occasionally he has guest posts by other self-published authors. I can’t stand them. They all sound like this:
…went to school… never thought I could… married the most WONDERFUL man… wrote while nursing my third son… knew I didn’t know anything about it, so I… been a crazy sort of insane journey… feel so blessed and fortunate.
Guh. All of them. No exception. I get a headache every time I think about them. Does anybody actually enjoy reading that crap? I guess someone does. Well, if you’re reading this and you have any interest at all in the story of my life you need to stop reading right now. Just walk away. There are literally a million authors ready and willing to tell you their life stories and they’re all equally boring, but each in their own special snowflake way. I encourage you to go read them until you’ve memorized their bourgeois nonsense verbatim. Then, just remove the name and put mine in its place. There. You’ve got my life story. That’s me. I am that quirky housewife/cranky pundit/boozy weirdo/plucky misfit toy.
Instead of laying all that schlock on you, ‘imma talk about what I want, ’cause I do what I want.
Let’s see, I always wanted to be a writer… blah blah blah… went to school for writing… yadda yadda yadda…
Oh, here it is. This is what I wanted to talk about. Before starting The Adventures of Grant Scotland roughly two years ago, I hadn’t written a single piece of anything since the short stories I wrote in college. So, about eighteen years of… eh, call it research. I’m not sure why I wasn’t writing, except that I didn’t have anything I wanted to say. I suppose that doesn’t stop some people, but for me it’s really that simple. Oh sure, I wrote quite a bit as part of my job as a computer game designer (failed career #2), but never anything for myself.
Then, after no less than three distinct failed careers, many failed relationships and a requisite number of life experiences, I guess I was ready. Not only did I want to start writing, but I knew what I wanted to say and, more importantly, knew that there wasn’t anything else left that I wanted to do instead.
Actually, to be fair, I don’t think I’m qualified to do anything else now. This writer gig pretty much has to work. The word is out about me. I’m quite useless at everything except this – hopefully.