So the web is abuzz with stories about Christmas wishlists from a century ago. All that talk has made me take stock, not of my own Christmas desires (which consist of more than nuts and fruit, but far less than diamonds and real estate), but of my bucket list. I realize this is just a millimeter short of a quantum leap, but this is how my twisted mind works.
A million years ago when I stood at the edge of the wood and took the proverbial path more or less travelled, I had some kind of pie in the sky wish for fame that would last beyond the grave. In my ninth grade journal I think I said something about wanting kids to read my books in school after my romantic and untimely demise. (gag me with a spoon)
Fast forward to graduate school where I was doused in the cold hard reality of probable literaty obscurity. I scaled my wishlist back to a thin sliver of hope of publication in esoteric literary journals with a readership of several. Those were the days of nuts in my stocking.
Last Christmas I hadn't finished Safe Distances yet and my carefully worded and thought through desires ended with actually finishing a novel, having it read by more than 12 people, and maybe (hope against hope) seeing it find a home in a library. Check. Check. And as of yesterday, Check! I should feel vindicated, done, sated and proud. And I am - to a degree.
My bucket list said nothing about fame, fortune, or the New York Times Best Seller's list. So why am I querying agents and bloggers till my fingers bleed? Why am I spending every spare minute directing and crafting book trailers? Why am I trying to conquer the Twitter in some vaguely desperate and almost certainly futile attempt to make my hashtag go viral (is that even possible?)? Why? No, really, I need you to tell me.
So this is me taking stock. This is me taking this Christmas to be grateful for a story (or two) to tell, characters I love spending time with, and mostly friends who read my book(s) (and blog) and still love me. Am I going to stop querying? Am I going to stop Tweeting (and bloging)? Probably not. But I am going to stop envying the crappy romance writing indy published shedog, who supposedly did nothing to promote her books and ended up on the NYT Best Seller list - 5 f-ing times. (Okay, I'll work on the bitterness too). I am going to accept that fate is a fickle mistress with no taste and enjoy the check marks in the margin.
This Christmas I am going to write because I love it. I will plant myself at a table in the public library across from the shelf that would hold my book if it hadn't been checked out and be grateful for words.
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