Killing Birds

As in, as many as I can with one stone. That is my goal for the summer.

(All this talk about killing birds is making me feel a little guilty, so I am going to go with the analogy, but if you could, please pretend I have written the word "mosquito" whenever you see the word "bird." Just to make me feel better.)

Every summer, I say that I am going to be serious about my writing, treat it like a real job, really try to get published. (This is in lieu of getting a real job, of course.) And every summer, I fail. I might be serious about it for a day or two, and then once a month or so after that, but it never lasts. So, this summer, I am going to try again. Publically, this time, sort of. And with time sheets.

That's right, time sheets. See, I am right-brained. But I am in touch with the left half of my brain, too. (Funny how I am right-brained but left-politicalled. And how well those attributes seem to coincide. Maybe it has something to do with my left versus the left of someone who is facing me. Just a thought. Did I mention I might have a teeny attention deficit as well?) Like I was saying, I am in touch with the left side of my brain, too. Enough to know that the only way to reign in my right-brainedness and get the good stuff out of it is to give myself structure. So I have given myself a rigid structure to follow that will, hopefully, still allow my creativity to flow.

I can't get up early unless I have to, and I can't work at my house. I know these things about myself. So if I try, I will only set myself up for failure. So, my work hours are noon to six. That's realistic, and it won't cut into my summer fun enough to make me give up, I don't think. (That is one of the hazards of being my own boss. And I really suck as a boss, by the way. I am way too forgiving and accepting and relaxed.) I intend to spend a half hour every day reading over lunch. No Cosmo, no Glamour, and no Sylvia Plath, because those things are just depressing and will not inspire me to write. I learned my lesson there last summer. I will choose good literature or books somehow related to my writing. And I will spend a half hour blogging (or journaling, but on my blog). Since I seem to have a mild addiction to the Internet, journaling online will keep me from jonesing for Facebook while I am working, I hope.

I will also spend time every day writing-on what project, it does not matter. But every day, no matter how hard it seems, I will create. When I've clocked a couple hours writing, I will stop for the day. (Then maybe I'll have something left to write the next day, too.) Then I will turn loose my left brain loose and spend some time editing things I have already written. And a few times I week, I have dedicated time to selling myself. Um, okay, not myself, exactly. That would be easier money but it would be harder to come by business, I suspect, and I'd have to hire a good lawyer or move to Vegas. What I mean is that I will spend time submitting my writing to appropriate venues: contests, magazines, publishers, whatever.

And those birds I mentioned killing?

Well, I will find out if my writing is good enough to get me anywhere. I might not find out completely, over the course of a single summer, of course, but I will have an idea. If nothing else, I will at least get a good pile of the prerequisite rejections that every writer must have behind me. That's one bird.

I will also, with a little luck and a lot of hard work, stave off the depression that I drowned in last summer. Part of my problem was that I was at loose ends. I didn't force myself to do anything that would make me look at the bigger picture, the world outside of my own head. A schedule, a commitment, even if it is only to myself (and now to you, since you have read thus far), will force me to look outside of myself and find the strength to function. I hope. That's another bird.

And finally, I hope to make money by writing. My dream, everyone's dream, is to make money doing something so enjoyable that it really doesn't feel like work most of the time. For me, that something is writing. I am not delusional. I don't expect to become a billionairre overnight (or ever, for that matter), but it would be nice to be a hundredairre. I just want to make enough money to justify writing to my father when he asks me why I don't have a real job. I just want to know there is a little bit of hope in it for me. That's a third bird.

I am sure there are other birds I will kill, too: maybe my writing will touch someone, make someone see something he or she didn't see before. Maybe I will write myself out of my insecurity by exposing myself. (Again, I don't mean that in the way that might get me arrested.) I might gain a sense of pride in myself that I lost too long ago. I might kill two birds, but then again, I might kill a thousand.

Who knows how many birds are out there waiting for me?