Wow. I made it. I’m a writer. I really am a writer. My dream—through a lifetime of hard work—has become true.
I can tell because my career has taken on a life of its own. It goes and does things without me. I get messages that result in me taking part in projects, writing, getting paid—and tends to pay better than the results of my own efforts to promote myself.
I just hope, like the mad scientists who were my role models, my creation does not end up destroying me.
Right now I’m feeling overwhelmed. I have a lot of deadlines to meet. And getting a lot of ideas.
Having finished my novel, Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin, I find myself back in the short story mode. Speaking of which, I should email that agent again . . .
I just finished teaching “Papí Sci-Fi’s Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom” at Palabras del Pueblo. Most of my students were teachers. Talking about turning the world upside down . . .
Then there’s that blogging that has become part of my life and business.
And I’ve been drawing. I wish I could have spent as much time on that as I have writing. But then there is only so much time.
Add the fact that I am trying to do all this and getting cataract surgery in June, and you see my situation.
I shouldn’t really complain. This is the life I wanted. My dreams are coming true.
I can’t help it. I’m a freak of nature. I have too much imagination. And I’m compelled to put it in forms that I can share with others, which results in disruption in the social order.
And that makes me happy. Maybe I am the monster.
I’m too old to change. And I don’t really want to.
Besides, it's really starting to get good.