My whole life everyone has told me I can write on the side of whatever it is I do to make real money. They’ve said I’ll hate writing if it ever turns into a job. That I belong in science. Or medicine. Or whatever dead-end desk job I can get so long as I’m bringing home a paycheck and no one needs to support me.
Maybe you’ve heard something similar.
Or, maybe you’ve been discouraged from your dreams for some other reason. Because you should be the version of you your parents believe you to be. Or, you’re not good enough at the thing you love, so why bother? You’re too old. Too young. Don’t have enough experience. Need to sacrifice a baby lamb at an alter in Sicily. I don’t know your life.
But what I do know is that there are people out there making a living at what you want to do.
There are people who are older than you, younger than you, poorer than you, less skilled than you, less privileged than you who are making time to write every spare second they have. These people aren’t asking for permission. They’re just showing up to the page and writing.
Will they get giant book deals and be able to quit their day jobs? Will they ever feel good enough? Young enough? Experienced enough? I don’t know.
But what I need to keep reminding myself is that you don’t need anyone’s permission but your own. You just need the guts to show up to the page every day. And isn’t a dead-end desk job you suffer through for a while better than a life without ever expressing yourself through words?
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 363)