Snoots

What are these “Chronicles of a Confined Writer?” Well, since I was little, I’ve been told that I was a good writer. As a youngster, when someone would tell me that I was a good anything, I had to prove to them that they were wrong. So, I didn’t like writing. My “good” handwriting turned into chicken-scratch. My polite demeanor turned into defiance. Well, maybe just a little bit.

Nevertheless, writing is one of a few things that I’ve always been pretty good at. These chronicles are about my desire to write and my desire to follow a dream. I am going to become a better writer. I am going to begin making money with this craft of mine. Eventually, I will sustain my children and myself from it, as well.

Do I have a timeframe for this? What’s stopping me? Why haven’t I done it up to now? What’s different? What makes me think I can do it when others can’t (hint - I think they just choose not to)?

I see a time in the not-too-distant future when I can work in my pajamas, or my winter coat if it’s cold and my heat doesn’t work, or my birthday suit if I just don’t feel like getting dressed after a nice, long bath. Since I can work from anywhere, I choose “everywhere.” I will work at whatever time I choose, on whatever day I choose, and in whatever surroundings are available to me and appropriate for me. This all depends on what I am writing at the time I am writing.

Writing is a fascinating avocation, occupation, and infatuation. To be continued…

Saturday, March 24, 2007. Seattle’s Best Coffee.

I want to be a writer. Do I write? Sure. I write letters for work. I write contracts for work. I write emails to friends. I wrote papers and essays in school. All these are and were sources of stress for me. Well, all except the emails to friends. As you’ll learn if you stick with me, some emails to friends are sources of stress for me, too.

So, I’m sitting here at Seattle’s Best Coffee in Borders Books, Waldorf, MD. It’s a different sort of environment than I’m used to. I’ve actually been opposed to “snooty” or “trendy” coffee places in the past. Elitists go there. Is that true? I guess I’m turning into one. As I was just talking on the phone (also writing), a middle-aged lady walked in the door. She had an old lady with her. The younger one said, “Excuse me. Can ’she’ sit here?” Of course, I told them she could sit. I was honored that I must have looked friendly enough for approach. The elderly lady sat quietly and I continued to write. A friendly occurance; how nice.

What am I doing here?