I’m, unfortunately, the kind of person who’s easily discouraged.
I could get a brilliant idea in the shower, come from the steam and open the laptop to write, but there’s another open window with the Goodreads page open. I would see a successful author in my genre, then remember the mediocre reviews on my book, and there goes the urge to write.
This year is a year for changing. I’m at a crossroads, having to face the reality of writing. I have to decide if I want to keep it as a passion or if making money sounds like a priority. I don’t know yet, but I’m not hurried to find out.
I’m exploring new things, new genres I haven’t touched before. New formats, like the sort of creative non-fiction I’m writing these days.
Sometimes writing feels lonely. And then that’s all I can feel.
I was once in a writer’s discord group. It was lively for a while. They were the only writing friends I had, at least in recent years. We talked about nothing and everything, but in the end, I realize there was never a true connection.
I know what a true one feels like.
All the way back to elementary school, I used to threaten my friends to write so I can have something to read. I was writing a novel even then. I wanted them to be like me, because the writers were cool. A few of them did, but gave up two pages in.
They preferred to read. Pen on paper in a tiny notebook I got from the nearby convenience store. That tiny notebook got passed around the class under the teacher’s eyes.
Now I haven’t heard a single notification from the group in months. And I haven’t been in contact with any of my childhood friends in years.
Except one, who visited me last summer. By chance, I just got my author’s copy in the mail. I opened the package in front of her. She was pleasantly surprised and thought it was unbelievable.
We met again in Beijing a few months later. Us two, and another friend of ours agreed on a reunion. We sat around in the back of a boba shop in a busy mall, each with a drink in front of us.
She said something I don’t think I can ever forget.
“It’s great that you actually went out to complete your dream.”
She said it in an almost wistful way. It made me stop for a few seconds to think.
We were all lost youth. Didn’t she have a dream she has yet to complete? Plenty of time left.
Also, was publishing a book my dream? I never really treated it as such.
When I was a teenager, I made a bucket list and one of them was “publish a book”. But it was obligatory.
I never intended for it to be just one. To publish more, of course, you have to publish the first one. I wasn’t going to stop, the idea of such is ludicrous. I wasn’t going to stop at just one.
I want to keep writing as long as I’m still alive.
That’s, I guess, is why I’m also easily encouraged. Just writing this article is making me feel better. There’s no profound insight here, just a writer, venting.
I don’t know who invented the phrase “there’s no going back now”, but he sure was an idiot. That’s what heroes say at the start of the third act. That’s not real life.
There’s never a way of going back. Not now, not ever. We can only look forward. Sometimes forward is the void.
Sometimes the abyss stares back.