Fail, fail, fail, fail, succeed

What I’m Doing Now

On work days I get up and go to the ER for twelve and a half hours, then go home exhausted, my brain and body an over cooked mess.

On my days off, I write my novel. It’s so much fun it’s hard to put in words, and I’m a writer, so if I can’t put something in words, it must be either very mysterious or very abstract.

It’s both.

I’m closing in on my goal of 90,000 words, and the characters are so alive to me I sometimes dream of them.

Soon, the story will end, and I’ll start another one. I hope someone will read them and be moved, but I’m not holding my breath. Hope isn’t a good strategy.

And it doesn’t really matter, or at least that’s what I told myself when I started. See, writing and attempting to publish short stories quickly disavowed me of the idea that my writing meant anything to anyone other than me.

But, it turns out that this was a test, and how I answered the question would determine whether I was really a writer or not.

It turns out that I am, indeed, a writer. Because I’ve learned that other people’s acceptance isn’t why I do it.

I do it for me, because I can create worlds in my head and then live in them for a while.

It’s impossible to describe how fulfilling that is.