Like many people, I had a few days off over the recent holiday season. Being a working-class writer is not easy, since most employers demand their pound of flesh, and then some, so taking a few days to write was, in a word, bliss.
The new year begins with a new round of responsibilities and a boss making renewed demands for more time. As it is, the time I have to write is measured in minutes rather than hours. I keep hoping that this will be the year that I’m noticed.
Well, I may be exaggerating there a bit. I started writing fiction, by my recollection, in about 1975. It may have been earlier, given how sloppy those initial manuscript pages look. In a working-class family, I didn’t have the first idea about how to get published. I’m still learning.
2014 was a boon to me, with four fiction pieces published in one calendar year. That has never happened before. I first started sending out potential publications in 2009, and had not my first been accepted, I would’ve likely sent my last piece out in 2009.
Since then I’ve ensconced myself in the cycle or proposing and being rejected, with the occasional editor who sees eye-to-eye with what I’m trying to say. All appearances to the contrary, I’m not a hack. Neither have I ever taken a writing course.
Those who write because they write know that it can’t be learned or taught by classes. Surely it can be enhanced, but my classroom was a redneck town with a hostile attitude toward boys who were too creative and not too physical. So I kept my light under a trashcan.
Reentry at work is hard. I have to awake too early again. I yawn through my own writing while the sun is still reluctant to get out of bed. This past week I saw the moon on my way to work and then again on my way home, in the opposite side of the sky.
More stories are coming. I work on them every day. I still get many rejections, but I’m starting to learn it is the price to pay for writing as a working-class man. Or woman. Or both. Fiction is wonderful in that way. Each new year offers new possibilities.
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