I love poetry. I do. It’s no surprise to anyone that I feel this way. I mean, I am a poet…possibly a bad one, but an ever-evolving one. I love discovering a new (to me) poet or a piece that really speaks to me. I spent 4 days in St. Louis at a conference learning more about writing poems.

As for fiction, I have a hard time getting into stories. Sometimes, even short-stories are taxing for me. I don’t know what it is; maybe it’s the stretch of endless prose, maybe it’s a subject matter that doesn’t interest me. Maybe I’m just a selfish jerk that should not even be allowed inside a bookstore.

I wrote a book. It’s fiction and it’s long, and it was a total fluke that I wrote it. I’m 100 pages into my third revision, which I believe will be the last revision before I (gulp) send it out to an agent or contest or publisher or magic book fairy. I wrote it because I was bored and angry (to begin with) and needed something to distract and entertain me.

Today, I added another 1,000 words to a new a book I’m writing.

Shit.

I think I’m a fiction writer.

(With this realization comes a whole parade of other thoughts that may or may not be true. They’re mostly along the lines of “Is my whole life a lie?” and “How can I be a fiction writer that doesn’t particularly enjoy fiction?” Although one of my thoughts shows I’m not totally at a loss: “Does this mean I’m like Neil Gaiman?” Score one for the runaway ego.)

Now I have a feeling that I’ll be spending the rest of my summer reexamining my life.

And writing fiction.

My outdoor “office” with the three-ring binder of my first book. Crap. Now it’s my “first” book because I’m writing a second. ::sigh::