Last night I had dinner with a friend of mine at The Grand Hotel and we discussed the difference between an “author” and a Writer.
I know some amazing published authors who can certainly pen a compelling story. They are well-read book lovers who became inspired by some of their own favorite scribes and successfully smacked out their very own novel to be proud of. As a fellow Artist, I am wildly proud of them.
Within the stack of wordy projects I have going on at the moment, I still don’t personally identify as someone striving to be a “successful author”. Sure it’d be sweet to support myself with some sort of creative writing-like gig, but whether or not that occurs doesn’t determine whether or not I write.
Along the way I have crossed quite a few fellow word nerds who had a crack at a book or two that didn’t necessarily go anywhere so they moved onto other things, like sports or painting. Time goes by and when I ask how the writing’s going I get something like, “I haven’t really done anything for a few months.”
A few months?
I might not be an established author, but my writing gets sicker by the day… because I practice. My novella is coming along, poetry book is being formatted.
A key difference between Poetry: Volume One and Poetry: Volume Two is the order of the work. In the latter, the book is laid out in the exact order it was written. Maybe that isn’t very exciting to most people. But to me, a chronological collection of another tricky year is inexplicable.