A thought popped into my mind the other day as I was pulling laundry out of the dryer, that every job I've ever had, I've either studied long and hard to do the job, i.e. spent five years in graduate school so I could teach those whippersnappers A&P, or I've had enough of a background to get hired, but then I gathered on-the-job training. In fact, the only job I didn't have training for was being a parent. You're just thrown into that job with very little background (babysitting counts, but not so much, really). Parenting is an extreme case of on-the-job training, right?
All of this thinking about jobs made me kick myself in the rear end, at least metaphorically. Despite the fact that I've been writing since I was young, I never majored in English, Literature, or Creative Writing; I never edited more than the high school newspaper (that is, until Literary Mama); I never enrolled in advanced writing courses at the college level. I've been picking my way through writing with the help of my writing group and some wonderful local writing courses, but to be honest, most of my writing education has been by trial and error and much perusing of online resources. And I didn't start this journey until 2012. Three years I've been at this. Only three years.
So why did I think, if it took me five years of graduate school to be able to stand in front of a class and do what I do, or over a decade to be the mother that I am, that I should be able to write a book and publish it in very little time? Am I that arrogant? I don't think so. I'm just that impatient. And I've spoken about that impatience before.
My plan? To stick with the writing life for the long haul, regardless of where I go and how long it takes me.