Why I like my job
Nov. 27th, 2006 03:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maychorianThis is a recent post from my Xanga blog (http://www.xanga.com/maychorian), which I'm moving over because I decided that my livejournal will now be for writing stuff. And I want my LJ buddies to know a little bit about me without having to go through the work of a clicking on a link to go to another blog.
Complete and uncut (though it probably should have been):
You know what I like best about my current job? No? Well, I will elucidate.
All my life, for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. I can still remember sitting in the kitchen, writing a Cat in the Hat-type story, yelling to Mom when I didn't know how to spell the word "fan." I even have a paper from the second grade, with a typical grade-school essay with the question: What do you want to be when you grow up and why? And I answered that I wanted to be a writer, because writers get to tell stories for a living.
Ever since I knew myself, that thought has been in my mind. "I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer." I devoured books four and five at a time--I was more excited to go to the library than to the candy store, and when I got home I would sit on my bed and read a chapter of one book, and then a chapter of another, and then another, because I couldn't pick which to read first. I read The Swiss Family Robinson when I was nine, and Ivanhoe when I was fourteen. I would sit in the bathroom for hours to avoid chores and other homework, just reading and reading.
And of course I wrote. Some of my early stories were kind of like The Rescuers, you know the Disney movies? Only my stories had cats. Two of 'em. Kipp and Kitty-poo. They could talk. Kipp had a star at the end of his tail. They hung out with three kids, a sister and a brother and their cousin: Penny, Sam, and Soody. (There is a story behind the last name which I will not tell right now.) They fought the evil Lady Mama (pronounced Ma-maw) and her henchman. I believe his name was Schmee. Something like that, anyway. They were terrible and wonderful stories, really.
I was always the kid who knew the big words, confusing the nieghbor kids and impressing the adults. I was proud of this. And when someone wanted to know what a word meant, I could usually answer in such a way that it was immediately understandable. I liked explaining things.
I told stories to my siblings. When Bethany and Andrew were very young, Bethany a year old and Andrew not even that, I entertained Peter with stories of the Baby Drivers. These stories were best told in the car. Bethany handled the wheel and Andrew worked the pedals. They drove through buildings and picked up an office guy named Mr. Manager, who enjoyed hanging out with them. These were very long, involved tales. Later Philip joined the Baby Drivers. Even later, I told stories to Bethany, Andrew and Philip about the intrepid Baby Drivers, Talitha, Charity, and Hope. It was a great series. I wish I remembered enough to write them down.
When I was thirteen I started creating my own fantasy universe, a horrible, beautiful rip-off of Tolkein, Lewis, and a dozen others. I wrote a novel, finishing it when I was fourteen. I wrote short stories. I wrote series of short stories. When I was fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen I wrote Star Wars fanfiction. Other fanfic writers thought I was wonderful. I joined an online writing workshop and posted my original novel, the new one that I thought was pretty good. Other workshoppers thought I was wonderful--one nicknamed me "Mozart" when I wrote "Happy Birthday to me!" in the notes of the chapter posted on my sixteenth birthday, and he called me that ever after. I tried not to be proud. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
I went to college and learned how to write devotions and book reviews and testimonies and newspaper articles and interviews and Sunday School lessons and craft how-to-dos and essays and papers and screenplays and editorials and short stories based on someone else's idea of how it ought to be done. Dr. Hensley thought I was pretty good. Some peers seemed envious. I really wasn't very proud anymore.
And all this time, always in my mind, was "I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer."
Now I've graduated. I have a job. I write and edit and proofread and do lots of other things, too. Marketing writing can be kind of like fiction, sometimes. There's creativity, showing the product in the right light. Not lying--just showing in a certain way. I like it. I like it a lot. I'm the writing expert here. People come to me. It's flattering and occasionally overwhelming, but always satisfying. I still write my own things, fanfic and original fiction and essays and blog entries. I haven't sold anything yet, but I will. Watch me. I'm a leaf in the wind--see how I soar.
And there's been a subtle shift in my thinking. It's been here for a while, but I only recognized it recently. I don't think "I want to be a writer" anymore.
I think:
"I am a writer."
And it's true.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Today I am at home, messing around on the internet and trying to write. I spend a surprising amount of time doing this exact same thing. But thanks to the miracle of email, I was also able to do some work HERE AT HOME WHILE SITTING ON MY BED IN MY PAJAMAS!!!!!!1!!1!
Yep, I edited a Vera Bradley thing. It was short, so not worth going into work. Lori emailed it to me and I looked at it for half an hour and wrote a list of grammar problems and emailed it back. Yay for working at home. That's six dollars I just made in my pajamas.
I like pajamas. Just thought I'd mention it.
Also, my pet mice are adorable.
And, um . . . . that's all.
Oops, copied another entry over too. Oh well. It'll give you a flavor of my life.
Complete and uncut (though it probably should have been):
You know what I like best about my current job? No? Well, I will elucidate.
All my life, for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. I can still remember sitting in the kitchen, writing a Cat in the Hat-type story, yelling to Mom when I didn't know how to spell the word "fan." I even have a paper from the second grade, with a typical grade-school essay with the question: What do you want to be when you grow up and why? And I answered that I wanted to be a writer, because writers get to tell stories for a living.
Ever since I knew myself, that thought has been in my mind. "I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer." I devoured books four and five at a time--I was more excited to go to the library than to the candy store, and when I got home I would sit on my bed and read a chapter of one book, and then a chapter of another, and then another, because I couldn't pick which to read first. I read The Swiss Family Robinson when I was nine, and Ivanhoe when I was fourteen. I would sit in the bathroom for hours to avoid chores and other homework, just reading and reading.
And of course I wrote. Some of my early stories were kind of like The Rescuers, you know the Disney movies? Only my stories had cats. Two of 'em. Kipp and Kitty-poo. They could talk. Kipp had a star at the end of his tail. They hung out with three kids, a sister and a brother and their cousin: Penny, Sam, and Soody. (There is a story behind the last name which I will not tell right now.) They fought the evil Lady Mama (pronounced Ma-maw) and her henchman. I believe his name was Schmee. Something like that, anyway. They were terrible and wonderful stories, really.
I was always the kid who knew the big words, confusing the nieghbor kids and impressing the adults. I was proud of this. And when someone wanted to know what a word meant, I could usually answer in such a way that it was immediately understandable. I liked explaining things.
I told stories to my siblings. When Bethany and Andrew were very young, Bethany a year old and Andrew not even that, I entertained Peter with stories of the Baby Drivers. These stories were best told in the car. Bethany handled the wheel and Andrew worked the pedals. They drove through buildings and picked up an office guy named Mr. Manager, who enjoyed hanging out with them. These were very long, involved tales. Later Philip joined the Baby Drivers. Even later, I told stories to Bethany, Andrew and Philip about the intrepid Baby Drivers, Talitha, Charity, and Hope. It was a great series. I wish I remembered enough to write them down.
When I was thirteen I started creating my own fantasy universe, a horrible, beautiful rip-off of Tolkein, Lewis, and a dozen others. I wrote a novel, finishing it when I was fourteen. I wrote short stories. I wrote series of short stories. When I was fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen I wrote Star Wars fanfiction. Other fanfic writers thought I was wonderful. I joined an online writing workshop and posted my original novel, the new one that I thought was pretty good. Other workshoppers thought I was wonderful--one nicknamed me "Mozart" when I wrote "Happy Birthday to me!" in the notes of the chapter posted on my sixteenth birthday, and he called me that ever after. I tried not to be proud. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
I went to college and learned how to write devotions and book reviews and testimonies and newspaper articles and interviews and Sunday School lessons and craft how-to-dos and essays and papers and screenplays and editorials and short stories based on someone else's idea of how it ought to be done. Dr. Hensley thought I was pretty good. Some peers seemed envious. I really wasn't very proud anymore.
And all this time, always in my mind, was "I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer."
Now I've graduated. I have a job. I write and edit and proofread and do lots of other things, too. Marketing writing can be kind of like fiction, sometimes. There's creativity, showing the product in the right light. Not lying--just showing in a certain way. I like it. I like it a lot. I'm the writing expert here. People come to me. It's flattering and occasionally overwhelming, but always satisfying. I still write my own things, fanfic and original fiction and essays and blog entries. I haven't sold anything yet, but I will. Watch me. I'm a leaf in the wind--see how I soar.
And there's been a subtle shift in my thinking. It's been here for a while, but I only recognized it recently. I don't think "I want to be a writer" anymore.
I think:
"I am a writer."
And it's true.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Today I am at home, messing around on the internet and trying to write. I spend a surprising amount of time doing this exact same thing. But thanks to the miracle of email, I was also able to do some work HERE AT HOME WHILE SITTING ON MY BED IN MY PAJAMAS!!!!!!1!!1!
Yep, I edited a Vera Bradley thing. It was short, so not worth going into work. Lori emailed it to me and I looked at it for half an hour and wrote a list of grammar problems and emailed it back. Yay for working at home. That's six dollars I just made in my pajamas.
I like pajamas. Just thought I'd mention it.
Also, my pet mice are adorable.
And, um . . . . that's all.
Oops, copied another entry over too. Oh well. It'll give you a flavor of my life.
