Writer’s Bootcamp Day 1

I started this 30 Day project last year before my leg was broken,  I have been wanting to get back to it since I started to crawl out of my depression, but I haven’t had time.   I have a short break from my job, so even though I’m super busy in a lot of ways I’m going to try to make time for this.  I honestly don’t think I will finish it, because I know I’m a quitter, but I might as well try.

The first day’s assignment is to write about your dream life as a writer

My Dream Writing Life –

I want to write because I want to matter.  I want the words in my head to mean something to someone other than myself.  I want to change someone’s world the way my favorite author’s have changed mine.  I want to make the lonely feel less alone because they are reading words I have written,  words that connect them to me, to life. I want to feel connected to life as well, I want to know I serve a purpose greater than just working for a company and making someone money.

My ultimate goal as a writer isn’t to be rich or famous.

I don’t care to be rich.   When you are rich you become important in that others fear you, because you could take away their means of survival.   The wealthy have power, the power to ruin the life of another on a whim. If you are rich enough you can have pretty much anyone fired,  you can have people arrested for doing nothing, you can sue people who don’t have the means to defend themselves and take away all that they have.

If you are rich you have a buffer between yourself and the rest of the world.  Even if you start out a poor or middle-class person as you gain wealth, you rely on others less and less.  You stop having real connections, everyone around you becomes a flunky. With wealth comes detachment from the world,  and I don’t think you can be a good writer if you are detached. How can you tell the truth if you don’t know it?

I’ve lived in poverty, frankly, I can do without any more of those valuable life experiences. I don’t want to worry about being homeless or going hungry,  I shouldn’t have to choose between medicine and food. So yes, I want to make money writing. Enough to buy a cup of coffee and leave a reasonable tip,  Enough to pay my rent every month, be able to go to the doctor and buy my medication. To afford to take my cats to the vet. I would like enough money to buy books and magazines,  to go to the movies. I want to have enough to go to dinner with friends once a week, to have a membership to the botanical gardens. I want to go to a few local nerd conventions and maybe go on a nice vacation from time to time.   I want enough money to buy cute dresses and get a massage sometimes. A little extra for a gym membership would be nice.

I can afford all of these things now with my corporate job,  and I can’t give that up to be a writer full time. Hence the dream, the fantasy.  Writing iis now and will probably always be side-work, because I have suffered plenty,  I have enough suffering to last a lifetime. I’m glad I have these shitty poverty experiences to draw from, but frankly, I could do without adding any more.  

In my dream world, I don’t have a corporate job,  I write for a living. Some days I work 10 or 12 hours when the muse is upon me,  some days I “work” by reading a book or listening to podcasts as I walk around a beautiful park (this is my fantasy world, so I can walk without pain or a cane).   Maybe I will be popular enough that I can do a small book signing in a local bookstore, maybe I will speak on a panel at DragonCon. I will go to workshops on writing from time to time making friends with other writers.  In my writing dream world, I get paid more than my current average of about $.25 an hour for my work, so I don’t have to work every moment I’m awake to get by. I can have hobbies and friends.

In my dream world where I am a “real” full-time writer, I respect myself, which is something I haven’t done in a few years now.  In my fantasy, I express myself every day,  telling the stories that currently clog up my head, releasing the anger and depression that they seem to cause if left untold.  I think that my work is worthy, that I am worthy.  I have earned my right to be and to be loved. In my fantasy I don’t feel like a useless lump of meat, taking up space clinging to a life I neither want nor deserve.