Is This Real Life?

I am unemployed. I am broke. I am an artist. Today, it all feels official.

For the first time in my life I have the time to write what I want, whenever I want. No master, no authority figure. On one side, it is liberating; the only rules and bounds that I face are those that I have set for myself. The other side of the coin, however, comes with a world of uncertainty and fear.

Writing is great, but paying my rent is even greater.

A travel journal, originally, this place has seen all sides of my opinions and view points - from my thoughts on Glee to Pat Robertson - so now, it is time for another shift. This will be my outlet, a portal into the life of a nobody Brooklyn writer trying to become a somebody.

For some preliminary information about my writing side, I am a film, theatre, and television writer with an odd love of pretentious literary fiction (I do hold a BFA after all, so it comes with the territory). I am terribly opinionated. I like what I like, and when I really hate something I always have a reason. Hate then, is separate from appreciation. I can appreciate a piece and yet truly hate the way it is written (cough, Virginia Woolf, Gertude Stein, cough), and I think that this is a necessary awareness for all writers. Appreciation of voice. Because, answer me this: what is a writer without their voice?

-E

[yes, I am aware I used "their" for "his or her" - I hate that gender neutral thing.]