Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. At 45 letters, it’s the longest word in the English language for a disease caused by a very, very tiny thing: fine silicon dust in the lungs. Interesting, you say? Well… I’ve known that since I was 13. Yep, I am a lifelong compiler of useless trivia. It’s a curse. Instead of retaining things that I need to know, like bank account numbers or the answers to tests, I recall things like rat’s can’t vomit. They’re physically incapable of it, so remember that the next time you call someone “rat puke.”
I was going to blog about the NaBloPoMo’s prompt of the day, but to be honest, my writing space – not so inspiring. Its small, its cluttered, there’s another desk butted before mine like we’re two under appreciated detectives in a bullpen full of underpaid cops – only the coffee is a hell of a lot better. Or so I hear.
I’m one of those people who never knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. Yes, I know, I said I’ve been writing forever and that wasn’t a lie. The thing is, when you’re 14-15 years old gobbling down Mercedes Lackey and Anne Rice novels like their stacked in a Pez dispenser, you’re only aspiring to emulate the great, not really create something of your own. I was more into drawing back then, at any rate and soon found my love for researching. I spent a lot of time believing I was going to be the next Howard Carter. Then I was going to be a supermodel… no wait, a fashion designer… You see where this is going?
Even at 18, as I sat anxious and excited in the Financial Aid office at a technical college, I had no clue what I wanted to do. Sure, I had glanced over their options and instead of really, really thinking about it, I chose what sounded the funnest. Interior Design. Man, was I way off. But hey, I know how to make blueprints, so I’m sure that will never come in handy.
At no time during my juvenile through young adult years did it ever occur to me that I could actually be a professional writer. I always thought it sounded nice for those who’d achieved it, but since I loved it so much, my wistful thoughts felt too akin to a pipe dream. Then one day that enigmatic blockage in my mind just vanished and I found myself declaring: “This is what I want to be! I am going to be a published author!” (I know, pretty damn sure of myself, wasn’t I?)
The truth of it; the deep-down into the marrow of my bones, at the very nexus of my soul, is a refusal to believe that I was given all of these stories and characters for no bloody reason. I was born to be a writer. My instigating, challenge-hander-outerer told me that once and I believe him. If not for myself, then for the sake of my characters. They deserve the chance for their voices to be heard, for their stories to be told.
I can only do my best and hope someone will listen – because, they are incessant, impatient little bas- eh, buggers.