By the time I graduated college I had spent my entire life living for someone else’s finish line, for the things they wanted for me. And though their intentions were good, when it came time to live for myself, not only did I not know how, I had a better idea of what my goals weren’t than what they were.
It didn’t matter how good I was at any of it, I didn’t want the life I had been slowly carving for myself. Not the degree in chemistry. Not med-school. Not a 9-5 office job that would slowly suck my soul until there was nothing left. Preferably nothing that came with its own brand of predictability.
I wanted travel. Writing. Adventure. A life worthy of my own story. But hell if I knew how to fund that after giving up the logical choices for my career.
So I started thinking about writing as my way out.
If I could just manage to write the manuscript the agent would come. After the agent would be the book deal. Then the bestsellers lists. Tours. Movie deals. Eventually, I’d have a fan base, would bump elbows with interesting people every day. Which would eventually lead to the husband, family, and a life of travel together.
Happily ever after.
Everything that mattered to me, everything I wanted, my entire future hung on the fact that I needed to write the dang thing. And every day that pressure bore into me, making it that much harder to face the page. Even my daydreams fed into the scheme (because how else could I meet Oprah, Mindy Kaling, or Tom Hiddleston if I didn’t prove I was worthy by writing something fantastic first?).
Subconsciously, I had made writing the hardest thing to do because I didn’t allow myself to do anything that wasn’t perfect.
Now, I understand that you can’t really do anything well until you’ve given yourself permission to mess up, to try things that won’t work, to write shit. Maybe it will lead to the movie deals one day, but I can’t control any of that anyway.
The only thing I can do is return to the page no matter how badly I want to convince myself not to. Oh, and I can work to separate my own worthiness from the things I create, but that’s another problem for another day.
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 309)