It's amazing how much difference a little bit of time makes. Here's a blog post I started writing two months ago:
September 5th, 2013 - I have a secret. I am meant to write novels. I have been hiding my secret so that I could support my family. I actually don’t like the fact that I want to write. I don’t want to turn into a writer. I’ve met people who say they’re writing a novel and they make me sad. I’m in a form of denial, not realizing that I am holding onto the same sad dream.
For so long, I have had the voice in my head that told me I would write. Whenever I heard about a new successful author, or read a new book, or discussed books being made into movies, I heard that voice: “I could do this.” “This isn’t that great.” or “This guy is getting paid for this?”
I have so much self-doubt. I wonder why I’m doing this. I wonder why I think that I could do this. I have failed at things before. Why wouldn’t I fail at this, too?
My definition of success has to keep changing. It was about money. Then it was about fame or prestige. Then it became a matter of escape or freedom. Now it is a matter of survival. I can’t face 35 more years of trying to hold a job working at some company for some sort of boss for a paycheck and PTO.
Right now, I am living the story I will tell. And if it’s sad and tragic, that’s only because it’s such a good story.