12:37 a.m. - 2003-09-22
A writer once more.
I could talk about the fact that we've sold our house. I could talk about the for sale sign that looms on our lawn. I could talk about the fact that I hate living this way, hate the in between lifestyle I've been forced to adopt, hate feeling like nowhere is home at the moment.
But I don't want to. Because I just got home from being a writer. Mama Bean and I met up at Boston Pizza with our laptops to tackle the Three Cheers and a Tiger contest story (I'd link you, but the page isn't working right now.), because both of us were getting a little panicked about the impending deadline.
Damn, y'all. I kicked some ass! I wrote 1600 words in about an hour and a half, and I was swept up in remembering what it feels like to do that. To just sit there and write, and then read it over and realise that hey, it's actually pretty good. I was writing feverishly when I realised that my language was exactly what I wanted it to be, that my turns of phrase were doing neat things I hadn't even done intentionally.
It was an hour and a half that made me feel once again like maybe this is something I can do. It reminded me why I love it and forced me to realise that occasionally I'm pretty damn good at it.
Sure, that sounds terribly arrogant, and it is, really. But given how rare it is for me to acknowledge being good at ANYTHING, I think I'll take my feeling of satisfaction with myself for a nice change of pace. I feel like I could take on the world right now and win.
So I'm going to go to bed now, and revel in this feeling. Bring on November, baby, because I can't wait to write a novel. Suddenly, I remember what being a writer is all about. And I love it.
