In this new age of self-publishing, everyone is a writer.
Blogs, short stories, novels, novellas, nonfiction — a writer no longer has to brave the rigors of traditional publishing, or to face potential rejection by presenting his work to an editor or, indeed, any human reader prior to flinging his work against the great wall of the internet like so much pungent monkey poop. Or to sully his “art” by actually getting paid to create it.
This is a great age indeed if your primary goal is to potentially be read by other human beings. It is also the greatest age for the creation of reams and reams (digitally speaking) of absolute dreck. Including this blog, I suppose.
I am a writer. For as long as I can remember, I have been a writer. Even before I could write, when my various toys and stuffed friends were the characters in my private dramas, comedies and adventures. When I could finally read and write, I did a lot of both. Over the ensuing decades, my compulsion to write ebbed and waned. I recently have been through a prolonged dry spell while life and work and other forms of self-entertainment have got in the way.
But…recently the itch returned. That maddening itch, like one beneath a plaster cast deeper than fingers can dig.
If you are a writer, you can understand that compulsion. That addiction. That maddening itch. And you know that getting paid doesn’t really matter. Even being read doesn’t matter, not really. It’s that need to create that matters above all else.
If you are a writer, you understand. As I asserted at the beginning of this blog, everyone, in this grand new age, is a writer.