There's something oddly affirming about the mere idea of work to me. I feel like I'm not simply taking up space, rather, that I'm in the realm of potential. Otherwise, I feel like there's something I'm supposed to be doing––some great task that I'm neglecting, some job that I could or should be applying to so that my bottom line is increased.
It is an odd thing, to be a writer. You live so much in your own head, in your own world, even when you find yourself in the midst of a throng of people. I don't know about anyone else, but I never feel a true sense of security, either. A strange occupation to have, I admit, for someone who craves security and control.
Therein lies the rub. As much as it steals control, writing also gives control. You can manipulate the words, create people and places and situations. No one does anything without your final approval, and the backspace and delete keys are always at your fingertips.
And yet.
When you write for a living, you learn to be alone, you learn to listen more, to observe more. There's a lot of more involved, but there's also a lot of less. There are more ways to create, more ways to speak out, more possibilities to find a story or inspiration in every person you meet. But there is also more worry and less money. Less certainty that another job will come, less contact. More days of burying your head in the sand so that you can truly focus on the formulation of the words.
To be a successfully dedicated writer, you have to understand that success doesn't come right away, and nothing is certain except for one thing: You will learn the meaning of rejection. Many, many times. The key is remembering that somewhere among all the nos is a yes––a great, powerful word. And all it takes is one.
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