You’ve given up so much just to be struggling to make ends meet. You’ve gone for it in the past, but never like this. You have the skills. You have the gumption. Still, there isn’t much to show for it yet.
But you feel it. Something says it’s right. You should be a writer.
You can’t help but begin to question if it was the right decision. People who don’t really know you think you’re crazy, and that’s fine. But when the people who do know you – the ones who have always believed in you and supported you – when they start to doubt you, that’s when it stings. That’s when your own doubts can creep up on you and slap hope in the face.
But you feel it.
It’s not really something you can explain. You just know you should be giving all these clever ideas to others. You understand how things work in the world. Maybe you understand a little better than many. And you can string words together better than most.
So you write. You find ways to tell other people what’s going on. And you keep going. You think, one day, that if you keep writing, something will happen.
You push through some of the bad. Then one day, something happens. Then another thing. Not big things. Little things. But they’re happening. You have momentum.
Now you’re moving. You are smooth sailing, making all the right moves. You give it your all. Forward.
Then the wind stops. It doesn’t matter why, but it happens. Suddenly, your full sails sag. You don’t move. You thought you had it figured out. As it turns out, life had other plans. You get knocked down. Your pencil breaks. The quill withers. The screen goes dark.
Then you remember that, no matter what, you always have this ability inside you. You have power because you can write. That can’t be taken away so easily. And you can’t give up.
So you sharpen a pencil. You dip your quill. You boot up your console.