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.
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.