On Monday (by which I mean yesterday), as I sat in my only Creative Writing lecture for the semester, I was struck by the oddest sensation. It was a sensation in the form of a realisation, more specifically, and that realisation was as follows.
I am not the same writer I was last year.
No, indeed I am NOT the same writer when you consider the things I have done in the latter part of 2010 and the earlier part of 2011. I have...
*Met my favourite local author for coffee.
*Met my other favourite author at a book signing.
*Come second in a competition.
*Run my own fiction segment.
*Written a terrible query letter.
*Redrafted a terrible query letter and used connections to get it in the hands of someone who can actually do something with it.
*Emailed (read: harrassed) published authors in search of advice.
*Finished the fifth draft of my manuscript.
*Wasted a tree by printing that manuscript double spaced and with 4cm margins, and spent a tenner mailing it.
*Worked out (although who knows how successfully) what a note on the author's view of potential readership and marketability probably should look like.
And a lot of that was really only in the last month or so. I guess that's why on Monday, or 'Yesterday' as you regular people would say in this situation, I was struck by a sense of separateness. I felt like the teacher was talking to me and expecting me to nod knowingly. I don't know whether I liked it or not.