I’m a writer in my heart, but I’ll never be a professional writer because I lack something that most artists have: selfishness. And yeah, that sounds like I’m trashing artists, but I’m absolutely not. The point of that was that those who don’t follow their hearts usually do so for others. I did, and still do. I didn’t pursue my dreams because my parents didn’t want me to do something risky (and how did my life turn out?) Then it was my ex-wife who held me back for the same reasons (and again…) And now it’s because I’m trying to create a secure life for my fiance and my son.
I should be happy. I have thousands reading my blog daily. I am working on a book with another author, and we’ve got a deadline in place. And a published author just asked if I would write the framing sequence for one of his upcoming anthology projects. That’s not bad considering my writing is just a hobby.
If I could devote my full-time to my writing, who knows what I could do. But I need to save for my son’s cross-country visits each year, and for an apartment for my fiancé and I, and a wedding, and paying off debts, and getting my car legal, ect, ect.
If I chose the life of an artist, I certainly could survive on my disability until the work started making me money, but that would be if I chose the solitary life. But I choose not to turn my back on the people who care about me. Even if sometimes it seems life might be just a little easier living in isolation. (And I’ve lived that life before, so I’m not speaking in theories.)
But even though my heart tells me to write, I have to ignore my calling, as I’ve done since childhood, because I have other people who need me, and it’s never about what I want. It will always be about making sure everyone else gets what they want. But who knows. Maybe when I’m in my 70s.
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