Writing For a Living
Cats: Uncategorized, Writing Tips|Have you ever realized how you evolve as you grow older. At one time I laughed at the propaganda behind the publishing industry which painted authors as eccentric people traveling through life on a different level than the rest. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a mother, student, business owner, wife, friend, colleague, mentor…
But, I look at myself tonight and shudder.
I sit here in a small room in the top of a 120 year old Colonial home. The wind blows through a bare maple tree, its skeleton still devoid of life. A small fire burns close offering warmth against the night’s damp air. A single bulb burns holding back the darkness, a good thing as I’ve been writing horror stories all night.
It makes people wonder if there is a thing called fate or destiny, if our lives are nothing more than a journey toward fulfillment. Not the fulfillment we sought when young, but like the sculpture cutting away everything that is not the statue, life cuts everything away that is not ‘author.’
I look around my room. Empty coffee cups lay on their side. A dish of figs and cookies lay at my elbow. The antique floor is cold, but I refuse to cover the worn and damaged boards. I see the evidence of plaster and lath beneath the renovations I paid for.
I do have a lovely office downstairs complete with 8′ long oak desk. The floor has a heating mat on it so I do not grow cold in the night. A window looks out on my soon to flower garden. So, why do I sit in the ‘tower’ room at the back of the house behind the glow of street lights?
It this a curse? Am I cursed to become Ray Bradbury? Though my stories are not set in a fantasy world, but in your own backyard - the one I view from the small window in my room.
