That little tail on the title hiding in the parenthesis wouldn’t have been included when I first started writing years ago. Of course, at that time, my writing was just a space-filler—something along the lines of typed doodling.
Now, don’t take me wrong. I enjoy writing. I always have. But it has only been in my twilight years, with a vanished hairline, and a white beard that I started approaching it with seriousness. I have finally reached the place where I will no longer compose another manuscript, complete or otherwise, only to print it out, staple it together, and stuff it into a drawer or cardboard box.
Raw and unedited, sometimes with nothing more than a working title and never to be read, is a thing of the past. The problem with that is that now comes the real challenges. Now comes the hard work. What is required is not only the discipline to the craft in terms of getting it on paper but the editing, polishing, and rewrites. Then, of course, there are the challenges of a book cover, formatting, publishing, and marketing. But above all, patience is needed, at least that is the case for me.
My hand is in the air. I have made mistakes, most often driven by a lack of patience. Ignorance has also played a role, such as an overreliance on editors, or perhaps a misunderstanding of the proper role they play.
One thing is for certain. I love writing today more than ever have. I trust that I have learned from my mistakes, grown out of my ignorance, and developed more patience.
I think I have.