Over the past year I have turned into a writer. Almost a real writer.
(I'm not sure what that means. At least I get paid for it.)
Here I sit at my desk, the fading light of Sunday sunshine behind me, typing away; I have my notebook on one side, my coffee on the other, thinking up vibrant verbs and snappy headlines.
I think in leads, nutgraphs, and catchy endings. I file away quotes as if I were using them later. When did this happen? I mean, I've always written silly stories with crazy characters and sent them to my best friend to read. My makeshift closet is full of notebooks. But when did this turn into my job and my and future?
Not that it pays much- that's why I need a romantic little garret somewhere. I have to be able to keep it warm with a tiny wood stove and stock my mini-fridge like a college student, so I don't starve while I track down impossible-to-find sources and start writing breaking news stories thirty minutes before they're due.
But boy, do I love it.
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