Yesterday, I went for a job interview, my first in months. I’ve already been informed I didn’t get the job, but I was asked if I would be available to contract work as a content writer. I said ‘yes’, of course.
I wasn’t encouraged to follow writing career when I was growing up. My parents, though adorable and supportive, suggested that writing should be my back-up plan, and that I should follow some other career that would pay better. So I did a science degree in zoology, and have never actually worked as a zoologist, though I did so some part-time work as a laboratory assistant for Doctor Endine of UQ, and I’ve worked in pathology.
Part of the problem was that our family knew no writers. I didn’t know what a real writer looked like and what they did. All my expectations were supplied by my reading or my Hollywood. I remember the first time I ever saw a ‘real’ writer and I was very disappointed that Stephen Donaldson looked like an accountant, a very handsome and sexy accountant, but an accountant all the same. I was expecting someone older and more flamboyant. Someone Bohemian. Someone who was starving in a garret. I wasn’t expecting an intense young man in a three-piece suit. Now that I am older, and hopefully wiser, I am grateful I went to listen to his talk and really listened. I was much too in awe of him to get a book signed.
Now I know that there as many types of writers as there are stars in the sky. Now I know what really defines a writer is that they write, even when it feels like they are bleeding their heart’s blood onto the page. That writers are every and any age, race, gender, nationality, or sexuality. I know that a writing career isn’t defined by the money you make but by the lives your have touched.
So what are my writing goals? To be a published author … but define published? To be a famous writer … but define famous? My main goal is to keep working, keep trying, and to always attempt to make my prose richer and clearer. Goals I can understand, and can achieve every day.