I just got back this past week from the largest international trade show of its kind, in my industry, in the world. If I had a nickel for every person who said I should write for one of our industry's trade journals, I could buy a small fry at Mickey Dees.
To begin with, as a result of attending this trade show, I spent my first two days back home in bed. Due to chronic pain and fybromyalgia, I presently cannot work. Three hundred word posts you read here sometimes take days to write.
Let's pretend however, that I didn't have this condition. I still would rather not write for official publication. My industry is filled with talent laden writers brimming with professionalism and steeped in journalism degrees. For the most part they tow the company line, with the company keeping their voice in back of the line. The folks whose voice you can hear in their writing, are usually not paid. These people write to support their own agendas like consulting or selling products.
I consider it a privilege and honor to exercise my right to the first amendment while writing on my two Web sites. But perhaps for a more selfish reason, it just feels good. Being censored and getting your words along with their meaning hacked up by an editor, does not feel very good. I wrote a monthly column for three years for a large publication. I had an excellent editor who allowed me to be me and write me. And while this did feel good, it still wasn't the me that writes here at Rothacker Reviews.
Closer to home, Rosemary tells me I should be a writer too. The seeds of a book related to my industry sprouted up in 2004. I have worked on it on and off since, and created my other site last year to serve as sort of a laboratory as I continue to work on it. I wrestle with whether or not I truly have the passion to move forward with it though. And health issues grinds progress into the dirt at the most inopportune times. Rosemary says that my knowledge and experience combined with the fact that no one else has written anything like it, are enough reasons.
I am looking out the back of my house towards the lake. I see a small green and brown frog attached to the window. As I move closer, I notice that his mouth is moving. I pause while I attempt to decipher his words, like a novice taking Morse code. No, it cannot be. I rub my eyes and look again. And then I write his message down on my pad: You should be a writer Dave!
