Ever since I caught the writing ‘bug’ I’ve been happily plugging along working on my stories and books. It makes me happy plain and simple.
But what’s it all about? What’s the big idea? What do I really want this to be? It’s been something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately.
I’ve had lots of goals in my life. I created my e-mail address when the net was new and the possibilities of getting your name as your e-mail were slim. You had to come up with something clever to get an unused dress.
Mine was mjp6btw: Michael J. Pennington 6 Books to Write.
Those books were as follows.
The Books of Life Trilogy: The Book of Endings, Lost Souls, The Great Begging.
The Helicopter Tree.
Breaking a Terrible Promise. (originally The Keeper of His Secrets. My story)
I still have two books to write on that list. “Lost Souls” and “The Great Beginning.” Of the others, Only one is on the retail market. “Breaking A Terrible Promise.” The others aren’t in a publishable state. I have two different copies of “The Book of Endings” in my case I keep my tablet in. “The Helicopter Tree” and “Vampire Apocalypse” are lost to the ages on long forgotten hard drives.
Goals are great, but that’s not why I write. I write because it is an incredibly fun and emotionally rewarding hobby, and while fun is a great reason to do anything, it’s not a dream.
So what? Fame? Money? These things don’t excite me, actually I’m happier when I think about being broke and forgotten. 🙂 I’m completely free to write whatever I want right now, that is an incredible feeling. Money and fame were means to an end if I made money from writing I could spend more time writing. But in order to do that, I have to spend a lot of my time self promoting. No thank you.
So I’ve been searching my soul, trying to figure out what would please me, something to aspire too. A reason to keep writing. (Beyond the fact that it is amazing.)
Holding a copy of my first published book was amazing. I wish I had enough money to by myself a copy of my second. I want to write and publish as many books as I can. They don’t have to sell, the world has changed I don’t have to impress snooty publishers anymore.
I want nothing less than a shelf full of my books. Sure it’s a masturbatory ambition steeped in narcissism, but yeah. I can get behind that.
That’s my dream. A little silly I know, but who the hell demanded dreams be practical?