Writing is my dream. It is what my heart is telling me to do. Yet, it can be so darn right sad sometimes. I’ve been led down a road I never thought I would take. That of being a writer. If someone would have told me at the very beginning just how hard this route would be, I’m not sure I’d have chosen it. I am glad someone didn’t tell me that at the beginning, though. It would have kept me from growing in ways unimaginable.
“Writing passion” is an itch you have to scratch. It’s what has me up at 2 am, pounding the keys. It sneaks me into the bathroom after midnight to make notes of the terrific scene that just popped into my head. It’s what puts the notebook and pen in my pocket whenever I am off somewhere – in case a great chapter idea surfaces between the broccoli aisle and the chopped beef. For the passionate, writing is not a choice; it’s a force that cannot be denied.
This dream in my heart is still driving me forward, even when it feels like its on its last beat. And it’s taking a lot of patience. More than I thought possible. I know I will be published one day. The patience will pay off. And my heart will be stronger for it.
But some people just don’t understand. They don’t understand why I want to write stories and share them. Even my friends and some of my family members don’t get it. Not only to a lot of people not understand it, they don’t realize how much work goes into it. People ask me all the time if I plan on being the next J.K Rowling or Stephanie Meyer. My answer? NO! I plan on being me! My own personal self. Just a published version of me.