I took the plunge tonight and decided to buy some web hosting for this blog. To let it take it’s first faltering steps on the world stage. Sure, no-one will probably find it or read it, but at least the possibility exists that someone might, by some strange miracle.
This has turned out to be a somewhat dispiriting process.
The books on fiction writing I’m currently reading (“The Writing Book” by Kate Grenville if anyone cares to know – and I have also Stephen King’s “On Writing” headed my way courtesy of Amazon) make the point that the line between fiction and non-fiction has become somewhat blurred.
As I was posting yesterday about the paradox of anonymity i.e. how it can both let writers be both more honest and less honest at the same time, I was struck by the parallels with the concept of fiction itself.
Can fiction be as “true” (whatever that means) as non-fiction?
How rude of me. Here I go diving off into writing a blog without telling you who it is that’s writing.
And that brings up a whole bunch of issues for me.
So I’m going to write about them since that’s how this “write everyday about anything” deal that I made with myself (and you, gentle reader) works.
The Big Question: Do I write with my real name, or a pseudonym?
So here it is. I want to write a novel.
There. I’ve said it. Can’t take it back now.
And I’m both excited and daunted by the idea by turns. Because in between the wanting and the actual doing seems an almost unfathomable gulf.
What makes me think I’m so special that anyone will want to read what I write?