5th May, Thursday
So, I wrote a book.
It’s no big deal, just hours of my life spent gazing at my laptop screen. It’s only three years living more in my own head than in the real world. It’s only sixty thousands words of my soul plastered onto a word document.
Like I said, it’s no big deal.
Despite all of the above, I would never call myself an “author.” Most of the time I refer to myself as an aspiring writer. Or – if I’m feeling really daring – a writer.
The truth is I want to build worlds that readers would want to live in. I want to create characters’ that people fall in love with. I want to write stories that stay with you long after you’ve finished the last page.
I want, I want, I want.
I said in a previous post that success is defined by individuals, that there is no one way to be successful. I guess I would consider myself successful if I could refer to myself as an author and mean it, and not just feel as though I’m playing “grown-up.”
Despite all this, there is still a small sinking part of me that believes I will only truly be an author when I see my book on a shelf in Waterstones.
This line of thinking led me to a whole host of questions;
Does an artist not consider themselves as such until they see their work hanging in a gallery?
Is a musician not a musician if he cannot sell his songs?
I honestly don’t know the answer, but I’m willing to find out. Sorry for the rambly post, it’s just a topic I have found myself obsessing over a lot lately!
Anyway, please feel free to comment with any of your thoughts in the comments section below.