My cat is whining at me. I don't know why. he won't stop. Even though I explained to him that I have this stupid nagging gone and back again headache he expects me to read his tiny half walnut brain.

The problem is, I'm NOT an author yet. I'm just a writer. And I have no way of knowing when or if that'll ever change.

"Just" a writer? That makes me think you don't value your talent the way you should. Now, I don't know if you actually feel this way, but "just"-ing something tends to read, to me, as diminishing it.

If you're never published -- and I know how much that makes your stomach sink -- you have to decide for yourself if your writing, the *act* of writing, is valuable to you.

If your definition of "author" is "published," then I have 2 words for you: Dan. Brown. ::shudder::

I'm a writer, and if my only chance of seeing print was to write like Dan Brown, I'd rather never have a word published. Ever.

And, FWIW, I know exactly what my problem is--instead of determining my self-worth through my own values and whether I'm doing what I most love to the best of my abilities, I'm looking to something beyond my control, namely the purchasing decisions of the publishing industry, and the social hierarchy of what's a prestige job for an intelligent and well-educated person to have. The problem is getting my gut to listen to my head on that one.

twolumps agrees with juliana: [link]

AHAHAHA! Yes!

OTOH, knowing that most of my peers are married and having kids freaks me right out and leads me down a "OMG unless I meet someone NOW and love them and get married soon and have kids I WILL BE OLD AND ALONE AND EATEN BY CATS". Which is clearly stupid. But.

Also yes, and right there with ya.

And Susan, I don't mean to be harshing on you. I like your writing, and I just hope you aren't getting so frustrated at not being published that you're missing out on *enjoying* your own writing. Because you should, IMO.

I'm just going to make sure that whatever part of me doesn't get eaten by cats goes out in a blaze of glory at my viking funeral.

I WILL BE OLD AND ALONE AND EATEN BY CATS

I assume the non-cat owner equivalent would be "...AND FOUND BECAUSE OF THE SMELL"? Looks like my current life plan, sadly.

People! Let us not get our brains all up in this crazy talk of cats eating us and the like!

It's FRIDAY before a LONG WEEKEND!

Life is sweet!

t loves on the Bitches

None of us will be eaten by cats. We will die at our keyboards, and the surviving Buffistas will organize response teams, or call 911, when the typing trails off, interrupting the possible cat feasts.

Then we will hold virtual wakes and drink Fernet.

What is this long weekend of which Nora speaks? We have it not.

"Just" a writer? That makes me think you don't value your talent the way you should. Now, I don't know if you actually feel this way, but "just"-ing something tends to read, to me, as diminishing it.

Well, I guess I've been wondering lately if I really have talent after all, or if I'm just kidding myself. Most of the time I look at TSL and think, "Wow, I wrote a damn good story there," and I think my WIP could be pretty damn amazing once I've polished it into shape. But, you know, what if I'm wrong? What if I'm like those people who can't carry a tune but think they can and sing at the top of their lungs?

I'm a writer, and if my only chance of seeing print was to write like Dan Brown, I'd rather never have a word published. Ever.

Oh, ITA. It's just never the Dan Browns of the world that I think of when I look at published authors and say, "I want to be like so-and-so." Lately I've been reserving that particular mix of aspiration and envy for people like Bernard Cornwell (who didn't start writing until he was around my age, but sold his very first book, damn him!) and Naomi Novik (who's younger than me IIRC, damn her!). (Note: My tongue is in my cheek there. No serious wishes of damnation for two of my favorite authors. I just want to get there too, you know?)