Last week I posted my 300th blog post. And true to form, missed out on commemorating the occasion.
This is something of a trend for me when it comes to my writing. I’m constantly overlooking my memorable achievements.
(What few memorable achievements I have as an unpublished, unconnected writer.)
TV sitcom Home Improvement characters Al (left) and Tim (right)
In a previous post, I shared thoughts I’ve had about my novel being critiqued by my critique group.
One post is nowhere near enough words to cover my insights on this process, which is still in progress.
One particular insight has taken me all the way back to the 1990s.
There’s something special about red heads.
Three weeks ago, I was at the hairdresser, and the woman in the chair next to me had red hair. She was also reading a book about the history of red hair and red-headedness throughout the world, from which she shared a few interesting facts.
Back in February (on the 12th, the 10th, who even really knows?), I had my 10th writing birthday.
A writing birthday is something I commemorate to mark the day I decided to take a professional attitude toward my writing, in pursuit of eventual publication.
To my knowledge, the writing birthday is something I invented. I’m not 100% clear on the actual date, but most years observe it on February 12.
Every writer has two* birthdays.
The anniversary of the day of your arrival into this world.
And that of the day you actually became a writer.
It can feel a bit like fiddling while Rome burns.
The world at large has always been a tumultuous place, particularly with the advent of new online media entities, social media, and the 24-hour news cycle of network news making us more aware than at any other time in history of the shit going down across the globe.
Lately, however, it seems it’s not just greater access to the news that’s making the world seem so untenable, but rather the quality of the news as well.