With a little help from my friends, I’ve come to realize that this blog sounds a lot like something Sherlock would post. While the idea of going “yes, this list will be in that book on writing I will write,” this format is only working for me. I like having those list posts to say, “Right, that was such a fabulous idea, Meg. You really need to have more fabulous ideas. Of course, maybe not as fabulous as Thranduil, otherwise the world will explode.” What this all boils down to, kids, is that I need to stop blogging like Sherlock and blog like John. I need to get away from this stiff sounding person, this face I feel like I have to wear for people to understand I know what I’m doing, and sound like the me I used to be okay with using in my writing. I want you to know my “whimsy”, my delirium, and my rambling when in doubt. And doubt, dear readers, is what brings me to today’s post.
Last November, life smacked me in the face with a 2×4 and asked what the hell I thought I was doing with it. I left proper school and joined retail five years ago. For five years, my creative side has diminished (and probably gone into the West…). I took this blow hard, and for two months I walked around still stunned by this year marker and uncontrollably angry and unable to do much about it because of the “Holiday Season”.
A new year has come, and so with it, a new beginning for me. I now stand on the path facing new challenges, such as shaping this person I once was and want to become again. I thought about the days when I believed most in my writing, which to be honest, was when I was in high school. My teachers sensed in my written word an edge of something more than school work and told me so. I submitted to contests. I saw my script performed on stage. My dad once told me the motto of Clan Turnbull, from which the name Trumbull descended, was “Fortuna Favet Audaci”. Fortune favors the brave, the audacious, the bold. I repeated that phrase whenever I doubted my courage.
Renewed with a willingness to chase my dreams all over the world if I must, I dove back into writing and most certainly not in the way I expected. After almost a month of researching and planning and thought and reflection and discussion with the people that know me best, I’ve decided to self publish. Dear readers, there is something I need you to know about this decision.
I. Am. Terrified.
After years of being told to submit, be rejected, and submit again, jumping into this world I wasn’t taught about is absolutely crazy. (Crazy is sort of the rule for most of my decisions considering the fact that I am the mayor of crazy town. I have the top hat to prove it.) I’m ready to start making a living from writing, using my skills for me, but most of all to bring to readers across the globe the worlds I have made up inside my head. I have lists of the stories I want to write that have been shelved too long. There are hundreds of characters with thoughts and feelings and motivations of their own languishing in the darkness of my psyche. This is the year things will change.
I started by revisiting my half-finished and outlined works, setting a daily page goal, and most importantly downloading new podcasts about my field. I’ve clocked quiet a lot of listening hours, and I’ve discovered that other indie publishers are generous and helpful in supplying information about this new, uncharted territory. They have already boldly gone where no one else has gone before and willingly guide the way. I think this was the last push I needed to jump off this ledge. I am ready for the change even if I won’t ever be ready for the fear of free fall.
But I’m ready to do more to chase my dreams than keep rewriting a manuscript hoping some mythical gate keeper will take me under their wing and lead me down the right path, thinking my words are worth their ink. I’ve had so many variables out of my control since school ended—working in places that are not my field, not being on a fixed work schedule, not being able to secure a house loan, and still being uncertain about the funding for the wedding I would really like to have. When I was young, I retreated into writing to build better worlds for myself, places where the rules were completely my own. I understand now that the only lasting happiness and satisfaction I ever found in life was when I was spending all my days writing.
Until I hit the water, I need to change my chant of the past few months from, “I will not fear,” back to the motto which seemed to work with me on deeper levels than I think I will ever understand. Fortuna Favet Audaci. I don’t know if I’ll be me or the water when I stop falling. Whatever it is that I become on the other side, I will continue to move forward toward a future of my making.
I will go. Boldly.
Love and Lighting,