Okay, that title's a bit presumptuous. It really deserves a question mark at the end, as I'm very open to suggestions at this point. Still, for what it's worth, I aim to write a writing blog here, an occasional chronicle of my attempt to earn the name 'writer', which also feels like a pretty presumptuous title.
I've picked a strategic day to start this off, since I've given myself an entire week off work, purely to devote myself to writing. It feels like a sort of test, or at least a preview -- this is The Life I Want, where writing is the thing I'm supposed to be doing, and not the thing I'm sneaking in between everything else. I didn't get any housework done today. Didn't have time. Had writing to do.
It's a strange position, being an unpublished writer. There's not much to put on your CV, so it makes for some awkward explanations if you go and mention it to someone. The most you can come up with is, 'I, um, write', but lots of people do that. You're certainly not expected to go prioritising it over anything else, any more than somebody who likes to knit is liable to turn down an invitation to the pub -- or, say, take a week off work -- because she has knitting to do. I tend to assume that published authors don't have that problem, but I could be wrong. People have funny ideas about how writing works, and they don't often realise how much staring into space is involved.
So this week, I get to stare into space as much as I want, without having to explain it to anybody (except, apparently, the three friends and my mother who are likely to read this blog). Today I wrote over 2500 words, which for me is, well, lots. I sat there in the moment with my characters, in my pyjamas, with dirty dishes in the sink, and I found out what they wanted to do next. This is going to be the best week ever.