I did it!

Karmic Reward for PatienceA few months ago, you would have read about my hair dilemma. (Oh, yes – I address the big issues on my blog) I decided to grow my hair long and ditch the hair dye. I envisioned long, glorious, dark curls. But I was dealing with a dry, almost-green-it’s-been-dyed-that-much mess.

Now normally I’m a kinda ‘gotta have it now now now’ sorta gal. Patience is not my middle name. But it was time to mix it up. Try something new. So I resisted the urge to cut it off, try some new style or dye it pink a La The Fabulous Helen Mirren. No, I persevered with the icky brown horrible length hair I had and stayed away from mirrors.

I conditioned diligently and had regular cuts and just patiently waited for my hair-dreams to come true.

And they have.

Behold the long, glorious, healthy, shiny hair. My karmic  reward for being patient.

Now I’m not known for my patience. Ask my postman. If he’s late I refuse to wink at him. Outright refuse. That’s how I roll. I like to have things right when I want them.

But after watching many re-runs of Karate Kid and Kung Fu Panda, I decided to embrace my zen. Wait. Be patient. And in the meantime, put yourself in the best possible position to achieve your goals. (Those movies either meant that – or just fight and eat noodles. Either way they’re both good messages.)

So my hair dreams have come true. And coincidently so did my other dream. You know. The one about being a published writer. The whole point of this blog.

I did it.

I received The Call.

My first book will be published by Harlequin UK and released in the UK and NA market in January 2014.

I would squee but that would not be cool. And I so want to be cool. *squeeee*

Breathe. In through the nose. See how zen I am?

So if you need me, I will be patiently awaiting January 2014.

And imagine how hot my hair will look by then?

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Who the hell am I?

I’ve been struggling with what to call myself for a long time. My brother has no problems with this. Neither does the bloke I cut off in the car down the main street today. But I am struggling.

You see, I worked in marketing for a few years. A few looong years. So I always called myself a marketer. Which is an incredibly wanky term. It means nothing. And it looks like ‘mousketeer’ which would be an infinitely cooler thing to call yourself. But I’m not a mouseketeer or a marketer anymore. Nor do I call myself a journalist. Because I’m not that either. Sure, I’ll write the odd article here and there, but really. I’m not sticking a microphone in pollies faces or reading the ramblings from an auto cue or getting a byline in the local paper for my article about how dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate at easter time. So I’m not a journalist.

So what do I do? I blog. But rarely – so I can’t be called a blogger. And I write. And write and write. Every day. Novels, articles, screenplays. Anything. But until someone pays me motza bucks to do this – I hesitate to call myself a writer.

But you know what? That’s what I do. Every day. I write. Anything. Everything. Sometimes I get paid and sometimes I don’t. But I keep on writing. Now if I were a garbo and I collected the garbage everyday and the damn council didn’t pay me – would I still be a garbo? Ah, no. I would not. I would be…an idiot.

Yet I don’t always get paid for what I write and yet I keep doing it. And doing it. And doing it. And besides having sex, there’s nothing else I’d do for free. (Now don’t get excited I’m not passing it out…I’m just trying to make a point. Which I’m getting to.)

You know what that makes me? A bloody writer. So I have changed my twitter handle (I know you noticed) to Writer. Cause that’s what I do.

Write.

And if you write, that’s what you are too. So don’t be afraid to call yourself what you really are. Although personally – I prefer the gizoogle.net version

I ‘ain’t talkin bout chicken n gravy biatch Writer of shit

So that’s me.