I always wanted to be a writer, ever since reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Hunter S. Thompson had a cantankerously ballsy way with words that made an impression on my teenage self at a time when I was just beginning to find my footing in life. I even remember telling a friend’s parent, when he asked what profession I would pursue after graduating from high school, that I planned to be a writer. But I soon discovered that, like George Costanza’s fake architectural career, it was a lot easier just to say I was a writer than to actually be one.
And even though I now perform some freelance work for a couple of business publications, I would hardly call what I do ‘writing.’ It more closely equates to journalistic pabulum – company owners tell me how great they are and I simply transfer it to a Word document. One week it might be a trucking firm, the next a company that makes vanilla extract, and after that a commercial developer, all more than happy to grab up some free advertising under the guise of ‘business news.’ I’ve already made some room on the mantle for my Pulitzer Prize.
It’s been about six months since I wrote anything I really care about – and by that I mean a piece I would post to my blog. Sometimes trying to “keep the lights on,” as my friend Sammy D. put it, doesn’t seem worth the bother. But what I figured out in the interim is that I’m not happy when I’m not writing for myself. So, yeah, I’m back, baby! I don’t know if I’ll be able to maintain a steady posting schedule (as all the blog tutorials tell me I should), or if my creative juices will abandon me again (probably), or if David Sedaris will start to follow me (probably not). All I know is, the other crap may pay the bills, but this feeds my soul.