Given as a nation the uncertainty of our economic situation some regret…very slight, as I remind myself what’s important to me…emerges about what I could’ve done with my life had I chosen some another career other than writing. I haven’t made any money from my writing; the small amount that has come in I could have attached to my refrigerator, not cashed the checks, and not miss them. Don’t ask me how much I’ve made. I would have to say I’ve never written for the money.
It was my story that I tried to disguise when I started writing. I must not have thought much of it. But I had my imagination, already developed; I had a desire to write; I had a big ego. I stuck to writing without getting paid for it; I didn’t try to sell my work because I didn’t think it was good enough. Since my work has been rejected, when I have tried to promote it, maybe my feelings were right. Maybe I couldn’t write well enough, though I hate “maybe”, hate excuses, and reject excuses as much as possible. But still I can’t totally control my feelings; to try to, I’ve learned, would be destructive.
I mentally try to be optimistic. The only thing that I can say for sure is that I love to write. And then screw those who may say or think I can’t write well enough. By whose standards am I judging myself? Am I selling myself short? I am when I listen to those negative voices, the intensity of them have often been loud. I was an escapist, someone who would choose the easiest path; therefore I would stop whenever writing became hard for me. So it’s extremely important for me not to allow choosing the right word or phase to get in the way. It’s more important for me to make it easy and concentrate on the mood of something than to fret over something I have little control over: my deficiencies as a writer. That doesn’t mean I don’t continue to try to improve; but I think I can only improve, if I practice. And if I fret too much, I know I won’t do that.
Good night, Randy Ford