I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. I wrote a sci fi story in fourth grade – ok, so it wasn’t much of a story, more of a Jetsons rip-off. But the creative urges were there in elementary school.
In my late teens and early twenties, I wrote my first novel, which was then soundly rejected by a number of publishers and which I allowed to kill my nascent writing career at the time.
Now I am actually published – with twelve stories that have appeared in journals, anthologies, and even as stand-alone novellas from respectable publishers. I am certifiably now an author. I may also be certifiable, but that’s a subject for another conversation. *grin*
But when did it happen, exactly? When did I cross over from hobbyist writer to actual official authordom?
Technically, it was probably when I made my first sale – The Bear at the Bar – to an anthology over at Dreamspinner. I wrote a story. I sent it in. They bought it. That makes me an author, right.
But somehow I don’t always feel so authory. Instead, I often feel like I am still figuring the whole thing out – still some rank amateur sitting at my keyboard whacking away at random keys, like those monkeys they say will eventually bang out the collected works of Shakespeare.
So when will that feeling go away? When will I come into my own, into my full and deserved sense of authorness?
Angel recently noted that I’m finally getting into an author rhythm. I had my first full-length novel accepted, and another pre-accepted, both for release next year. I am figuring out the scheduling thing, the characterization thing, and even the outlining thing bit by bit. Geez, I hate the outlining thing.
But I still feel self conscious when friends and family members proudly proclaim my authorial success. I still want to say “well, it’s not out yet.” Or “it’s not that big a deal.” Or “who knows if it will even sell?”
So when will that change? When will I finally feel like a real, honest to goodness, successful author?
Ask me again tomorrow.