Shameless Self-Promotion + Inspiration: Who The Hell Said You Could Write?

 

Image by Chen from Pixabay

I also publishing the cleaned-up version of this essay on the Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp blog. 

http://crazycreativescheerleadingcamp.blogspot.com

I'm publishing both the first draft and the cleaned-up version here to illustrate my editing prowess. 

Challenge Prompt: Who was the first person you told about your decision to pursue paid writing, and what was their reaction?

The First Draft

I can’t recall anyone ever telling me I should pursue a paid writing career. If anything, my family pushed me to avoid pursuing any kind of creative occupation, despite my father being a professor of literature and social sciences. I ended up following my parents’ chosen path for me and went into health care, a choice which ended up destroying my own health. I later learned that my father hoped I would become a professor of middle English since I displayed a love for it at a young age. I was a precocious learner when it came to language. I could read the Dr. Seuss books by the time I was four years old, and by the time I was six, I was reading Edgar Allan Poe.

Scarier still, I found myself relating to Edgar Allan Poe. I was never a particularly happy child. I never felt like I belonged in the world. I realized at a young age that the world was a scary place filled with awful possibilities. Perhaps childhood should be carefree and idyllic, but it’s naive to think it actually is.

These days I find myself wishing I could go back in time and tell my parents, “I know you’re doing what you think is best because of what you learned from your own families, but you need to stop and rethink things. You are really fucking up this child, who, in the future, will become the horrifying swamp witch you see before you. You are fracturing her fragile eggshell mind before she even has a chance to learn how to critique a concept and see if it holds up. You are contributing to the creation of a neurotic, traumatized soul who has no self-confidence or belief in herself.”

I can’t do that, though. I don’t have any sort of time machine or portal spell that will allow me to travel to the past and talk sense to my parents or push my bullies into a mud puddle if I’m feeling benevolent or a fire ant hill if I’m feeling less so. I grew up in New Mexico. I learned to hate fire ants early on. I’m surprised I haven’t written a horror story about fire ants yet. Or maybe I’m not. I really don’t care for stories about creepy crawlies.

Right now, I’m not entirely sure what my intention is with this blog. I keep trying to re-invent my blogging presence. There are certain things I’ve learned along the way, but I’d feel like a bullshit artist if I tried to present myself as any kind of know-it-all expert. I do know I’m done screaming into the void hoping someone will sympathize with my pain and validate my existence. I can only speak from my own experiences. I can’t tell anyone else what to do. If I manage to help someone else by exposing my own foibles or relating my misadventures, it’s a win.

The Edited Version

I can’t recall anyone telling me to pursue a paid writing career. My family discouraged me from entering any creative occupation, despite my father's background as a professor of literature and social sciences. I ultimately followed my parents' wishes and entered the healthcare field. Ironically, working in this field destroyed my health.

I later learned that my father hoped I would become a professor of Middle English because of my early interest in the subject. I was a precocious language learner. By the time I was four years old, I was reading Dr. Seuss' books. By six, I was reading Edgar Allan Poe.

Scarier still, I related to Edgar Allan Poe. I was not a particularly happy child. I never felt like I belonged. I realized at a young age that the world was a frightening place filled with awful possibilities. Perhaps childhood should be carefree and idyllic, but it’s naïve to believe it actually is.

These days I find myself wishing I could travel back in time and tell my parents, “I know you’re doing what you think is right because of what you learned from your own families, but you need to stop and rethink things. You are really fucking up this child, who, in the future, will become the horrifying swamp witch you see before you. You are fracturing her fragile eggshell mind before she even learns how to analyze a concept to see if it holds up. You are contributing to the creation of a neurotic, traumatized soul who has no self-confidence or belief in herself.”

I can’t do that, though. I don’t have any sort of time machine or portal spell that will allow me to journey to the past and talk sense to my parents or push my bullies into a mud puddle if I’m feeling benevolent or a fire ant hill if I’m feeling less so.

I grew up in New Mexico. I learned to hate fire ants early on. I’m surprised I haven’t written a horror story about fire ants yet. Or maybe I’m not. I really don’t care for stories about creepy crawlies.

I’m not sure what my intention is with this blog. I keep trying to reinvent my online presence. There are certain things I’ve learned along the way, but I’d feel like a bullshit artist if I tried to present myself as some kind of know-it-all expert.

I do know I’m done screaming into the void, hoping someone will sympathize with my pain and validate my existence. I can only speak from my own experiences. I can’t force others to care about me. If I help someone else by exposing my foibles or relating my misadventures, it’s a win.

Summary

I removed 50 filler words and restructured sentences and paragraphs to enhance clarity and readability. Both versions of the post convey the same message, but the second one does so more efficiently.

If you're interested in booking editing services, you can learn more here.

https://ornerybookemporium.blogspot.com/p/ornery-literary-services.html

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors