Since my inaugural blogging days, way back in 2005, I have spent time shaping myself into a writer. At the age of eight, when asked what do you want to be when you grow up, I answered, I want to be an author. I wavered a wee bit as I grew. Nonetheless, the first proper grown up job I had centred heavily around writing and research. I’ve been a writer at Ask Me About My Uterus for some time. Recently, I joined Invisible Illness as a writer. I’ve submitted a piece to Catapult. I spend a great deal of time on Twitter making connections and discovering editors taking pitches and completed articles. In addition to taking my snark for a jaunt, Twitter has proven remarkable for connecting me to the resources I need to advance my freelance writing career into something.
I have a list in the sidebar that links to my essays, a personal piece about my recent miscarriage; and a sardonic, sharp-witted piece about the darker side of living with mental illness – the bad, shitty days. Shitty days matter too, because not everyone survives them. Shitty days kill. Mental illness kills. So, survival matters. Miscarriage happens to 25% of women. So, why don’t we talk about it? In the immediate aftermath of my miscarriage, I looked for books, articles, resources that told the miscarriage story and also, surviving the aftermath. I could find nothing satisfactory; so I wrote my own.
Currently, I have several essay ideas lined up, each clamouring for space in my brain. I also have plans to spend time this summer in Toronto with elders from my dad’s childhood and young adult days. These interviews will inspire something … significant. Having to learn about publishing rights and all that mundane stuff means I have become more discriminating about what I post on the blog. Before, I wrote and published everything on my blogs. Now, I have to compartmentalise.
So, cool stuff on the horizon, watch this space!