Friday, August 31, 2012

F³A: The Fruits of My Labor

Writing. Sometimes it seems so unrewarding. I mean, most people will never see their work published. Of course with the rise of self publishing I supposed that's changed, which has its advantages and drawbacks.

But I digress.

Even those that are published--how many unpublished manuscripts do they have collecting metaphorical dust on their computer. I have at least six.

And when you're published, self or traditionally no matter,  you cannot believe how much work you have to do to market it. I mean, it's not going to sell itself. I've spent so much money and time trying publicize me, Never Eighteen. I'm constantly exhausted.

Sometimes it seems like it's not even worth the trouble.

But it is, isn't it?

Writers don't write for notoriety or money (well most, I mean there are those big names that are now just churning out shit to make a buck. They probably aren't even writing their own books anymore. I'm not naming names).

We write for ourselves. Because it's cheaper than therapy. We write to feel a sense of accomplishment. We write because simply, we love it.  I'm not going to use the cliche that writing is like oxygen,  I'm more about the whole therapy thing. Seriously though, some of us writers can't imagine a life without it.

It's what we do, it's who we are, and every word we write becomes part of us, like a cell or a mole, or an eyelash. Little bits that alone seem like nothing, but when put together become a whole.

Writing completes me.
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My Dad. He's awesome.

John Messina, Personal Injury Attorney

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