this writer’s life
This morning my therapist made me say out loud, “I am an author.”
This is a hard thing to claim when my book is yet unpublished. In the writers’ world, publication equals success.
I struggle with this writing life. I am a perfectionist. An academic junkie. A book devourer. A prolific and passionate writer. And a clueless and shy promoter of my own work.
I like to work hard, and then I like to sniff the pretty blooms that grow from my efforts–a difficult thing to do when this novel-writing tree has yet to bear fruit.
I have written one novel and am in the thick of writing my second. Though I will write to the end of my days and feel blessed to have this inclination, for some reason, it’s heart-wrenching to think that I can put thousands of hours into something that will collect dust in a drawer until I die.
However. If I am to say “yes” to the adventure and bliss of a writing life, then I must say “yes” to its uncertainty and loneliness. The whole package.
I’ve come to realize we have two choices in life: to follow our dreams/hearts, or to turn down their volume and wonder what that nagging feeling is that won’t leave us alone.
At this point, I have erased any other option than to relentlessly follow my dream of being a (published) author. The time is now, and I plan to wring the nectar out of this one life I have.
Welcome to my world, to my work space in the Treehouse, a window into this writer’s life: