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Why I’ll Always Have a Love-Hate Relationship With Writing
This is just one look inside my complicated web of a brain.
In 2009, I had the strands of a dream in my hands, and I thought it would be a simple matter of winding the yarn into patterns — bigger, bigger, bigger till I had whole swaths of colorful stories to ensnare a potential audience.
Not much has changed since then, but each day it gets a little bit harder to hold onto the picture of what I thought my dream would look like in the cold light of morning.
In the 2000’s, I gorged myself on books — mainly aimed at a young adult audience — while I spun fancies based more on self-gain and self-worth than anything relating to storytelling.
It was so easy to lose sight of the scope and imagine myself a best-selling novelist long before I ever put those final words to paper.
I could make excuses and say life got in the way a lot of the time, but how many people have reached for their dreams while subsisting on pennies and crumbs?
I don’t have to compare my life to someone else’s to know I’ve had my share of privilege. The now of it isn’t much different.
The worst part is that I don’t know if it’s fear or laziness guiding the ship anymore.
