Truthfully, this post should be titled 'The Difference 3 Ounces of Tequila and a Half Ounce of Grand Marinier Can Make'. About an hour ago, I was feeling very creative, a little introspective, and peaceful, for lack of a better word. Therein lies the problem. One Double Margarita, and One Special Margarita later, I have a lack of better words. I'm feeling a little more relaxed, but my brain feels constricted. I recall what I wanted to post about, but I don't know if I'm capable of actually getting the words out. Let's try, shall we? I can't let the stress take me down.
I was thinking about when I first wanted to write, and I was shocked to discover it was in grade school. My best school work was done via essays with my own illustrations. In Junior High, I took creative writing classes and art classes and, needless to say, that was where the rubber met the road. I excelled in the writing class and barely passed art.
Nowadays, I feel repressed and... dare I say it... afraid to write. I have no idea how one gets to this point in their lives, but I have this unexpressed part of myself. I don't know if it's because I think I'm a crap writer, or if I have too many other unexpressed issues, but it really does look like I'm *GASP*... blocked.
I know, I know, that is a fictitious state of being, but I don't know what else to call it. I did discover something this year, though.
I am a kick-ass editor. AND I LOVE IT. I can proofread circles around folks, and I have a wonderful enough grasp of the english language to know when you've screwed up. I still adhere to the idea that I probably cannot edit myself a fraction as well, and will be procuring an editor for my own future work, but I can read anything in the english language, and make it better.
It's like that commercial, 'we don't make the plastic you use, we make it better'. I can do that with your web content, I can do that as your beta-reader, I can do that with your ebook.
But, I have no degree, and no portfolio to speak of. So would I hire me? Probably not. I have submitted an offer to a website that I respect; one that had a definite issue, so we'll see if I can get my start somewhere.
So am I crazy? I mean, who loves editing? Who can do a better job than spell-check in most cases? What kind of literary maniac knows that your punctuation, or lack thereof, bites?
I know, it's just me. But in that case, I've got a corner on the market, baby! And looks like neither hell, nor excessive tequila can stop me! Sweet!
Just promise me that tomorrow you will NOT tell me how many times I insisted that I love you, man. No really, I love you.