Okay, so the title's a bit of a misnomer. I know why I get up every morning and do this.
So, this is part of the blog's new function: weary morning journal. A log of thoughts, no matter how scattered, tired or lame. I'll try to not to be too repetitive, but I make no promises, because in the end, this blog is very much about release, and let's be honest - sometimes, ya just gotta release the same stuff, over and over.
I think the thing that gets me the most is how, deep down, even though I'm driven each morning to get up and write, part of me wonders: if I'd known it would be like this, would I ever have started? I mean, on one hand, yes...in four/five short years, I've accomplished an awful lot. More than some folks ever accomplish.
And yet, I know I've not reached my goal. That my dream is still out there, ahead of me.
And, I've been coming to the sober realization that those dreams will probably never come to fruition.
Because let's be painfully honest, here. I had those wild dreams, and mourn their loss, a little. Dreams of being an overnight sensation. Of magically landing a big book deal. Of writing that breathtaking novel that wins a Bram Stoker Award, first time out. Suddenly hearing my name ringing through the halls of the Horror Genre.
I read all the writer books: On Writing, Brian Keene's blog memoirs, Gary Braunbeck's To Each Their Darkness, and during my own downtimes - when I've had to walk along the highways to collect cans in order to attend Cons, watch my house fall apart around me while I jerry-rig some OTHER half-assed repair job, in my head, I've been guilty of thinking: That's okay. Someday, when I'm a big and famous writer, I'll put this all in MY writing memoir, and it'll inspire some other writer.
But, reality comes, hard enough.
There will probably be no memoir.
And who would read it, anyway?
There will be no big book deal.
I'll be lucky to land a midlist deal, honestly. If there's even a midlist left, after the publishing industry gets done exploding.
Probably will never be able to live on writing alone.
Because let's face it, I haven't got the guts to do so.
I'll never be what I DREAMED of being.
So what does that leave me with, every morning at 3 AM? The words. The story. The actual physical act of writing, from which I draw a intrinsic sort of pleasure. For an hour and half, two hours every day, I sit in my little office - surrounded by all my books and comics and useless knick-knacks that mean nothing to anyone but me - and go away somewhere, a place where I make the rules, and I write.
More and more, that's the only thing to get up for in the morning. To have that moment, that little space of time carved out for myself, where it's just me, the paper, my pen, my stuff in my office, the words, and a story no one else may ever read, but that I want to read.
Have to read.
Window dressing. Dross.
Which, of course, doesn't mean that I'll give up my dreams.
I'm just stubborn that way.