I have never wanted to be anything other than a writer. When I was little, I played “office” with my dolls which meant I was the boss to all of my stuffed animals. Each and every one of them worked for me. They were my editors, and I was the genius author. I wrote my first full-length (five pages) book at age five. The title was The Unicorn Farmer. Not to brag, but I also did all of the illustrations myself. Somewhere between my first boyfriend, reading The Gunslinger, and eventually moving out of my parents’ house, I lost my ability to complete works. I got engaged, broke off the engagement, dropped out of college, kissed a girl, got a few health and wellness certifications, and got jobs. Basically, I “got” so much that I did not take or make the time to do the one thing I feel I was meant to do: write. I have promised friends and family for years that I was going to do it. I was just going to get out of my own way, and self-publish one of the novels that I have been “so close to finishing” for the last four years. This year, I will be 33 years old. If five year old me were in this room right now, she would be so disappointed in me for not making good on my one and only dream. To get this done in 2015, I will have to do a few things:
- Come to terms with the fact that I am not Hemingway, Whitman, Bryson (I’m talking to you, Bill), or Kingsolver. I am not them, and that is okay.
- Write stories and books that are garbage. If I am not writing garbage from time to time, I must not be taking any risks.
- Sit down and forget the internet is real. Sitting down is hard enough. I like to workout. Scheduling time to sit, turn off the internet completely, and write for a set amount of time is crucial to my success.
So, here we go, people of the internet. Here we go.