Okay, so I’m getting the impression that whenever I talk about my writing these days – and by extension of that, the book – you all out there exhale deeply and sigh, “Here she goes again.” You then figuratively check your watches and skim to the end of the post in case I end with a something interesting, and then you’re off.
And that’s fine. Sometimes, lately, I’m getting tired of all the talking myself.
I wish I’d shut up, too.
I never, ever used to talk about my writing. Or dreams of doing so. Remember, I grew up in a small town. As a teenager, in career counselling in high-school (or what passed for it), the only options presented were those with a great possibility of employability and general community usefulness. So, the trades (mechanic, electrician, plumber etc) were all respected. White-collar jobs were absolutely fine. Both rightly so.
But anyone wanting something ‘different’ – and ‘different’ was usually parenthesised like that – was seen as having a bit of an ego. Or delusional. If you liked English, you could leave school and become…an English Teacher. That was about it.
At least this was the vibe I got. So I didn’t tell anyone that it was my secret ambition to one day go to AFTRS to study screenwriting and potentially directing, lest they tried to talk me out of it. Not that anyone needed to; I was too young to be considered at the time, and even if I could’ve, I would’ve chickened out of filling in the application.
So I guess this is why I talk about it now; as a sort of catharsis.
Bear with me, please. At some stage I’m sure I’ll go back to talking about poop or nits or something. Until then, well, if this is the reading equivalent to Valium, tell me that too.
I will understand.
