As you may have deciphered from my previous posts, I am currently employed as a contract attorney/stay-at-home dad. While I am enjoying both career functions, I still harbor dreams of being a writer. Even though I have not always had the ability to work on my writing, this hope for an eventual career has consistently gnawed at my brain, refusing to be ignored. To this day I have made a few attempts at short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism, and I even hacked out twenty pages of a planned novel before determining it was not what I really wanted to write about.
Recently this quiet gnawing has been gaining moment and chewing away at my brain. I am a few weeks out from my 28th birthday, and most of my favorite authors were working on and publishing their first works during the ages of 27-33. Therefore, I am feeling a weighty pull to be really putting pen to paper if I reserve genuine hopes of breaking into the writing field.
In the past I have refrained from telling people that I am writing, or working on some writing, or have aspirations to be a writer out of fear that I will not have anything to show for it the next time they see me and ask how my writing is going. No more. I am announcing to the void in cyberspace that I want to be a writer. I need to be a writer. It is now forty days until my 28th birthday. I have a story framed out as much as I can with characters, plotlines, and other such things. I am officially declaring the next forty days: “40 Days to My Dream Job.”
During the next forty days I have a goal of writing 2000 words a day, eventually leaving me with 80,000 words at the end, roughly a novella to half a novel. It doesn’t have to be great, I just have to do it to have something to work with. And now, the goal has been made open for the public to stumble across in their internet surfing, making it possible for someone to ask me in forty days, “how’s the novel coming.”
So here goes nothing and possibly everything.
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