It’s here. Today I shredded my paper files, deleted my computer files, deleted all my sent, saved and received emails, permanently switched on my “Out-of-Office,” Updated my answerphone message to tell people I had left the building, and then switched off the lights and… well, left the building.
Tomorrow I will be popping in to say farewell to my colleagues, and to enable the Boss to push me out of the door again, but after that, I will be embarking on the next phase of my life, as a full-time writer.
So here are a few things for me to ponder over: When people ask, “And what do YOU do?” do I keep it simple, “Oh, I’m retired,” or do I keep it aspirational, “Me? Oh I’m a writer?”
If I really am a full time writer, what’s wrong with acknowledging the fact? Why did I just call it, “Aspirational,” when in fact it’s true? Well, I suspect that’s the good old British reserve. After 36 years with the same organisation (47 years since I took my first faltering steps out of the school gates and in to the big wide world), it can be hard to accept that something that has been an aspiration for so long, has now come to fruition.
So then I ask myself the question, “Does it sound pretentious to call myself a writer?”
Let’s face it, I might have had some serious interest from a leading London agent, but in the end, I’m just a self-published indie with a few thousand sales under my belt. (by saying “just,” I mean no disrespect to my Indie peers, but you know what I mean).
It’s a state of mind, I think. I need to accept that I am indeed a writer. I have one book “out there,” the sequel half complete and another two novels planned. Once I can accept the truth of my situation, hopefully I’ll be able to say, “Oh Me? I’m a writer,” without dipping my head and looking embarrased, as If I’d just been caught-out by my old school teacher, for pulling the hair of the girl front of me.