Recent events in my life have allowed and forced me to focus on writing as a way to put food on my table. And like every writer I am now, more than ever, questioning my ability.
I’ve always excelled at writing, I’ve always loved good books. Most of my greatest accomplishments scholarly were in my creative writing courses, and yet I am still scared, dare I say it of sucking. Period.
Of course I hope it’s simply myself being harsh, but really, could I suck and everyone’s just too darn nice to tell me? I don’t expect I’m as good a writer as I will be, or that I am publishable just yet, but am I delusional?
Writing has been my dream since I knew what dreams were. I have had it on the back burner while I tended a career I knew I wasn’t happy to be apart of, not just yet. But now that I face the ability to take time off and write, just write, I’m scared to death that it’s a fools dream.
Alas, I am that fool. Which, if life is as Shakesperean as one would believe, is the wisest character to play. I have a fall back plan, but for this month, and quite possibly the next, I will live off of my savings and write. Crazy? Rash? Yes, of course it is. But as the job market’s not what it ought to be, and since I’m technically a teacher and summer’s are off, I will write. And hopefully, sometime in the near future, I’ll be paid for it.
Wish me luck.
P.S. yes, I do have a plan…