Some days, I wonder why I ever decided to become a writer. What was I thinking? Oh wait, I know. I thought it would be easier. And probably that it would happen more quickly. And that my life would change dramatically.
Well, at least I was pretty close on that last one. My life has changed. Not in ways I ever expected, and most definitely not like I pictured, but it has definitely changed. And for the better even. So. That’s good.
But easy? Huh. Not on your life. Or in my life. Or anyone else’s either. It’s more like giving blood for a living. You go into the office, hold out your arm and tell the nurse, “Okay, hook me up.” (Ahem. The first time I gave blood—passed out cold for several minutes afterward. Have not given real blood since.)
And quick? Right. Since when has anything really, truly good happened fast? Patience is the story of my life. But I often find myself wondering if I should just give it up and go work at the gas station down the street. At least I’d have a ready supply of Dr. Pepper handy. (And chocolate. Black licorice. Gum. Yeah.)
Why do I bother? Why do I try so, so, so hard? Why do I torture myself, day after day after day?
Because I don’t know anything else. I don’t know how to quit this thing.
Because when it comes right down to it, I’m a writer through and through. And from the moment I first realized that, I’ve known deep, deep down in my innermost self that this is it for me. It’s who I am. And you can’t just stop being who you are. So. You keep going, because there’s no such thing as quitting when it comes to being who you are.
So I guess I’ll keep going. Even when it’s hard. And I’ll keep bleeding even when I want to pass out from the pressure (or lack of it). And I’ll keep writing, even when I think I suck.
When was the last time you felt like quitting? Did you try? What made you change your mind?
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