mynewplace

Having my writing published is a concept that occasionally hangs over my head and taunts me. It's a bit like a Holy Grail, except I can go for ages without even thinking about it, much less feeling any desire for it. And I can't remember the last time I felt compelled to work toward it.

It used to be something I feared, because it seemed so much bigger than me, something I could never be capable of, something out of my realm of possibility. It makes me wonder where I got this sense of inability, the feeling that I'd never amount to much. It certainly didn't come from my parents, although my mother might have come across with that impression after I dropped out of college. It's true that my mom and stepdad, and those who knew me through high school didn't act like I'd ever get better than secretarial work. There's no shame in what I do, but I know I was capable of bigger things - a full 4-year degree or more, in a field of study more to my taste rather than simply maintaing a course of study I was forced into.

Okay, I'm getting a better mental picture and memory of those years, and I don't want to go there. I'll be moving on, thought-wise.

I'm sure that there were seeds of self-doubt planted around that time. But being published is much simpler now than it used to be. Sometimes I doubt my talent, but I no longer doubt my ability to see my writing in print. My soul in print.

I would like to see my family's stories bared for public consumption. And I'd like to write them. Maybe after I get my computer set up at home, up and running, I'll feel more like going through some of my writing and putting it together in book form. I could start with the stuff from my own life, and if it does well then consider my writing about my extended family, my ancestors, etc. Or I could just throw it all together, depending on how much I actually come up with once I start weeding out various items from past journals.

Potato Chips For Dinner may come to life after all, someday. Someday soon, even!