I love writing. It’s one of those things that just brings out all the feels. It’s like a workout for my emotional well being; it starts out feeling like a needless chore, but by the end I feel like I could run a marathon. Or at least write a story about somebody who runs one.
The after-writing glow is addictive, which is why I always end up talking myself into becoming a full-time writer and living off my creativity. Who needs luxuries like fresh produce or shampoo? If I’ve got my writing, I’ve got all I need!
And then reality knocks me on my ass with a quick reminder of my ever-increasing debt so graciously bestowed on me by that wonderful experience we call college. No. No, I don’t need luxuries like fresh produce and shampoo, which is good because my 12% interest rate means I’ll be living off Ramen and taking sponge baths for the rest of my days.
In other words, how on Earth am I supposed to write “for a living” when I’m busy picking up every penny I pass on the street to pay off my student loans? Living on love is one thing; living with debt collectors knocking down my door to come steal my soul is another. So I get myself all hyped up about being a writer only to have the real world slam me back down on the incredibly unforgiving ground. Thanks, real world.
This blog is somewhat of solution to the “real world” problem – or at least a decent attempt at procrastination. Do I want to be a full-time writer? Do I want my work published? Do I want to sign a book and actually have that increase its value? Do I want to feel like even just one soul has been touched by what I have to say? Yes. Do I have the financial means to do what I want? No. Will I ever? Probably not. So I’m here. On a blog. Secretly praying it leads to some sort of entrance into the book world – as a writer or editor – but realizing it probably won’t. Oh well. I asked Santa for a horse for a good ten years in a row with no luck. This can’t be any harder to handle than that.