An Author?

I've been languishing. Oscillating between that space of elation and utter disgust. Its kind of an internal pout, a silent temper tantrum. I just don't understand this author thing. Well, I do understand it, but that is exactly what is making me swing the emotional pendulum between satisfied and disgruntled.

Let me back up, I guess. I always wanted to be an author. I am sure that is not news to you. Everyone always says, I used to write when I as a child, I live to write, I made up imaginary stories, etc. Well, let me tell you I had a brand new typewriter (no word processors yet) and I would sit at that thing and bang out STORIES. Serious stories. Just like my seven year old is doing now (although she is putting pen to pad). And just like her, I had already read Chronicles of Narnia and was starting on, but not completely understanding, the Hobbit. When I finished my book I made cardboard covers onto which I pasted my construction paper designs.

I was going to be an author.

Nobody told me that the author game is a hustle, dependent on your grind more than your ability to write. No one said that all those years I spent honing my craft were irrelevant, when the buying public has taken a "rap" approach to literature- the more ignorant and gully, the more likely to be bought. Nobody told me that being an author was no longer a special title bestowed upon those who transcended the literary "good" and wrote engaging "bests," rather something anyone with an idea could pay for and create.

I am disillusioned.

Was I searching for exclusivity? No. Well maybe. I guess the answer is yes. Not directly so, but I thought that being an author would consist of receiving a 100,000. check from a publisher who allowed me to dream of distant lands and places, research and create wonderfully thick works of fiction. I would tour the world and drink fine wine - experience life, write literature. How very foolish of me. That is the reality for some. But the layers of writers and hustlers between that level and myself is SOOO thick, how can I pluck through the cardboard ceiling?

The writing game is just like the music industry. Maybe worse. And who cares if its good, interesting or stimulating - the honor is that you sat down and wrote it, its real quality is insignificant.

SO I felt discourage for most of the day. Wondered, like all self absorbed indulgent writers, whether I should just tuck away my pen and put an end to writing. What is the point?

But then, at 2 in the morning, and idea hit me. And, as usual, I couldn't fight it, couldn't tuck it away to get a good nights sleep. Instead, I sit here now, typing away, writing out my angst and releasing "author" frustration. I guess there is no real answer to my dilemma, but one. Despite my cynical take and the low possibility of success, I have to write. It is buried deep within my DNA. So a writer I am. An author...well, we'll see.