I won’t be posting part 2 of my “Indie Publishing” series. Currently, I’m deep in the writing and editing trenches, preparing a piece for this Saturday’s Birmingham Noir at the Bar (June 7th at 6pm).
As I prepare to take the stage and read my story, I find myself reflecting on how far I’ve come as a writer-turned-author. What started as a little side hobby—an emotional outlet—has become such an important part of my life. Writing has given me something to look forward to, a community, friends, and yes, I’ll sound cheesy here: a sense of purpose.
My mind keeps returning to the first Noir at the Bar I ever attended. Whether it was accident or fate is hard to say, but I had no intention of going to that event six years ago. I called my dad, and we decided, why not? We work hard—we work a lot—so why not take a few hours to let our hair down?
We met at the Wild Roast coffee shop, and for two hours, we had our minds completely blown. I sat there in wonder, thinking about my own writing and asking myself: if they can do it, why can’t I? What’s stopping me… besides me?
The next day I was on a high that I still cannot describe. I broke out old, worn journals and combed through all my writing files stashed away on my HP. I had a fire; I started writing again—and unlike before, I began to take writing seriously. I am taking it seriously.
I feel as if I’m no longer floundering. Now, in my early thirties, my feet are finally on solid ground.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and one that taught me you have to take chances in this life because you never know what’s waiting on the other side. It can be bad, or it can be a whole lot of good.
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