I love to write. Always have, always will. Since my very first collection of short stories at the young age of 5, which include a heartwarming tale about a mouse and cat overcoming their differences and becoming best friends, and a how-to guide for making friends yourself (potentially with other humans). I was writing before I could spell, before I even started school, and once I started, I never stopped.
I can’t escape writing. Writing is who i am, it has been a part of me since the beginning. I breathe in letters and words, metaphors and similes, foreshadowing and plot-twists. My brain operates on auto-pilot, searching for the next idea.
I would have pursued writing as a career from the beginning. But even as a child, being told I could be an author someday, it didn’t grab me. I wanted to write but I also wanted to do more. I wanted to help people. It never occurred to me (until now) that I can accomplish things by simply writing. Not just for me, but for other people who might read it.
I also wanted to be wildly successful. And growing up, besides a few obvious exceptions, writing doesn’t seem to make people any money. Which is why I ultimately wrote it off (pun intended) as a career choice in high school. To write meant you had to freelance and struggle finding jobs. And, in some cases, it meant you had to share a vulnerable aspect of yourself to the world. (It was also easier to rule out when I thought the world was basically a giant pool of possibilities.) But now, years later, I find myself jumping from job to job, trying career after career, only to find myself disappointed and unfulfilled yet again.
So, sure, maybe I’m starting “late”, and maybe I’m way more behind than I would be if I would have just followed my passion from the beginning. But I’m here now, and I’m making the absolute best of it moving forward. Success be damned.