I came to the realization that I’ve been writing professionally (off and on) for forty years. I’ve hit all of my major goals over the years. It’s a lucky thing that I have so many stories trying to get out of my skull before I keel over…they keep me going as a writer.
Things I still have to accomplish:
- Win the Pulitzer for a drabble flash fiction story. (This is what is known as a stretch goal.)
- Write a police procedural and/or noir novel and qualify for membership in the Mystery Writers of America.
- Write a mystery novel that freaks people out and gets nominated for an Edgar. A secondary route for that MWA membership.
- Get one of my works turned into a movie so I can complain about how they changed everything as I deposit the huge Powerball jackpot-sized checks. No, not a number followed by a bunch of zeros, I mean one of those six foot long giant checks that I want to hand over to a certain teller at my bank because they’re always rude and snooty.
- Attend more conventions as a guest of honor. My goal was to have ten, only nine more to go.
- Get a story nominated for a Hugo award.
- Finally discover the truth that I’m an immortal with Superman’s power, Dumbledore’s magic ability, and the skill to turn water into perfectly brewed coffee with a thought. That last thing would also make a nice weapon…”death by coffee”. Heh.
So what’s the problem, Sparky?
- Lots of medical issues. I think one eyelash on my left side is perfectly healthy. I’d like the rest of me to follow suit.
- Too many [subliminal message: Bladerunner 2046] good movies and [subliminal message: Game of Thrones] television shows to distract me.
- I can’t make subliminal messages that are less obvious than the previous list item.
- The same life and professional worries that all of you have. Just because I’ve had success in the past does not mean I will continue to do so in the future.
- I can’t type with my thoughts. Yet.
- I also haven’t had luck training my chinchilla to take dictation. He tends to nibble on my best pens and refuses to use the Oxford comma. Barbarian!
None, really. I am still writing/dictating eight to ten thousand words a day. Some of them are good words. Some are horrible words that I immediately disown and blame on the raccoons that live in my attic. (They somehow got my Netflix password and stream Guardians of the Galaxy non-stop.) Most of the time I suffer from word diarhea and just keep on writing. In just one of my three classes last quarter I wrote a good sized novella (32K words) in the discussion forum. All together I spewed 72K nonsensical words that were so odd that it fooled the instructors into giving me a passing grade because they didn’t know what I was trying to communicate.
When it comes to my editors, they all use well-sharpened chain saws on their robot arms. (Don’t ask, but Google “chain saw juggling editors attack Guy Anthony De Marco’s latest manuscript that most say triggers the apocalypse” for a video of the event that I cannot confirm nor deny took place even if I appear on screen and throw rotten tomatoes at the editors during a critical moment.) They’re now so good at what they do that they carve giant wooden statues on the weekends. I should get some kind of kickback…
Maybe my chinchilla would make a better editor. He can chew on the pages and leave the good words behind. The rest of the verbage can be processed and converted to little pellets at the bottom of his cage.
Hmmm, now that I think about it, that sounds more like my publishers.