Honestly, I’m trying to distract myself from the fact that my thirteen year old daughter has pissed me off again by telling me all week that her distance-learning assignments have all been turned in only to get the weekly notification for her school progress tell me that she never did any such thing on assignments I asked about earlier in the week (that I’d received notices of being incomplete). To wake up this morning to find two more that were due last night has made me decide it is time to go authoritarian on her and start making her prove at the end each day that the assignments due are turned in.
Instead, I’ll pretend that I’m an aspiring world-renown author in the middle of the greatest novel ever written. Maybe not in the middle… How about started? Umm, okay… There is a “Chapter One” and a bunch of page numbers if I scroll through the pages of the software with abandon.
I guess it’s a good thing that I’ve discovered being even an author known in a small circle of avid readers is not very motivating for me. It suits my reality at least.
To be honest, I no longer know what motivates me to write as much as I do. Not all of it is fiction or poetry; sometimes it is technical or philosophical (good lord, you don’t have to worry about reading those here, I’ll spare you that at least), a few memoirs (as attested here), and sometimes random shit that doesn’t make any sense when I look at it three weeks later. That’s not to say that I write from sun up to sun down and well into the wee hours, but I do write quite a bit more than most people. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, tell you the why of writing.
I guess it is more habit than anything.
Back when I was younger, I did want to be published and well-known. That was well before the internet became commonplace (my first computer had a cassette drive for memory and, while BBS services were around, it was no place to publish a teenager’s writing even though the 300-baud modem could easily handle the content). Even after I went back to college in the 00s, I still thought it might be a great idea to be published and I was all set to self-publish something using services like Lulu. Except I never finished the novel and didn’t really want to do a vanity collection of poetry.
But about 10 years ago, I decided to quit worrying about getting published and just put stuff out there for shits and giggles. If someone liked it, great. If not, well, I wasn’t really writing to an audience in particular and I wasn’t charging them for the privilege of consuming my tripe, so I wouldn’t feel to bad about the matter.
Which, if you notice, is part of the reason I don’t bother with copyright declarations or other tags of authorship (CC, for example). It’s already under copyright the moment I write it. I will challenge someone who is profiting off anything I write, but I doubt anyone will by any amount worth pursuing. I definitely can’t prevent pirating in this digital age and it just creates a bad reader experience to try to stop such things.
In fact, if by some stretch (very large stretch) of the imagination that someone sees value in what I write, it’ll be just my typical luck that it will occur after I’ve left this mortal coil.
And it won’t matter much to me by that point.