On the 15th of this month, this blog turned four.
Holy. Moly.
It's been four years since I decided to be a writer, and one day hopefully a published one.
Four years since I finished my first (unsold and unpublished) novel. I see its flaws these days, but I still think it's the bomb.
Four years since I garnered my first rejection(s) for the very same novel. It didn't end with one rejection, of course, but most answers left me hopeful - it took me a while to understand the concept of a "form rejection". Oh, Past-Pia, how green and innocent you once were.
The rejections are still piling up. I haven't published a novel. I haven't yet made a dime with my writing. And yet, I still feel like it's only a matter of time. I feel like I've accomplished a lot as a writer.
Is this feeling warranted? Let's see...
In the past four years, I wrote (and completed!)
- four full novels,
- a screenplay for a movie,
- a screenplay for a TV-series pilot,
- ca. fifteen short stories and flash fiction pieces.
Four of those short stories were "published" over the last four Christmases via my parents' language training business, and given to their clients.
Two more stories are now about to be published by a small German publisher in an anthology about my hometown.
Other writing-related "accomplishments" include
- getting a degree as a German screenwriter, graduating with an A,
- finding my second and third wonderful writers groups,
- participating in readings,
- participating in workshops,
- going on writing retreats in Bavaria and Italy,
- joining SCBWI.
I don't know where any of this may one day lead me exactly. But I do know this: I've had a blast these past four years, and it just keeps getting better and better. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
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