May 09, 2019
My Father Wishes He Were a Writer, Like Me
Writing was just something I thought happened to people naturally, that whatever wasn’t written was eventually forgotten. And I wanted to remember everything.
Writing was just something I thought happened to people naturally, that whatever wasn’t written was eventually forgotten. And I wanted to remember everything.
Despite how fruitless both nursing and writing can feel, I choose to engage with both.
These worlds I dearly love, with science-fiction that supersedes the science in our reality, deserve Smart Drives and automatic doors and disabled heroes, too.
There are far more writers ringing up your groceries, writers pulling your daily espresso shot, writers in the laundries of hotels and security tagging jeans at the mall and filling your prescriptions and pouring your beer into a clean cold glass.
Writers, take note: A submission says, please pick me, I’ll be waiting. A pitch says, catch me or you’ll miss the ball.
You loved his talent first. You hope that he will not love you less, for all that you do not now achieve.
Will my face betray me when it’s time to talk about my book in public?
I wasn’t looking for pretty stories. I wanted messy, ugly, honest secrets.
I thought I was the exception to every rule about writing being a hard living. I got exactly what I deserved.
“No one had told me to prepare myself for this—for wanting what someone else had.”
