Writing, to me, has always been about the art of creation, the imagination, and sheer enjoyment of putting an idea or story down on paper and giving it life. It has been a tangible way for me to have ultimate control in a life that seems very out of control. I make a million small decisions in the stories that I write that completely dictate the outcome of the characters I create. Do I let them live, or kill them off? Do they fall in love, or fall short? Do they succeed, or do they fail? But writing has ever only been an enjoyable hobby. I have implacably refused to become a professional writer. I always believed that writing for a living would take the joy out of the art. However, I should, by now, know better than to use words like never or always.
No matter how emphatic my high minded beliefs were, they would ultimately give way to the practicality of convenience and the necessity of ingenuity. As Plato wrote, "necessity is the mother of invention." Now necessity has driven me to put the tools that I was given to good and practical use. Being in the great city of New York, where opportunity abounds and stiff competition follows hard on its heels, has given me the rough awakening and, consequently, the determination I needed to simply close my eyes and jump straight into a writing career. With something of a diverse job history, writing has been my only constant. Thus, the Real Imaginary Writer was born.
I chose the moniker Real Imaginary Writer, because writing has always been a hobby and a joy, so writing as a profession doesn't seem like a real job. I only half jokingly call it my real fake job. Where else can I get up in the morning, walk downstairs to my kitchen and make my tea, then go to work in my pajamas, where I make stuff up and write stories about whatever I want? No wonder this doesn't feel like a job for a grown-up. Even though I feel like I don't have a real job, at the same time I sincerely hope that that feeling never changes.