Last night I had a heart-to-brain talk with my spouse, who’s always been super-supportive of my writing. I told him I’d had a mini-panic attack that day because I actually had plans to write, which I haven’t found time for lately.
You have to write. We’re–all of us–sacrificing so you can follow your dream, he said.
But it’s so hard, my whiny inner voice said (thankfully, I did not utter that out loud. Scott works 50+hours a week, PLUS does freelance writing).
A whole book? Writing a whole book? Again?
And then I put it in perspective; say I wanted to make movies. I’d have a camera, maybe a few friends who would tolerate being ordered around, and a few ideas. I couldn’t ever make the movie of my dreams, not without a whole lotta money and some clout.
If I wanted to paint, I’d need a dedicated workspace, a lot of oil paints, training and someone willing to exhibit my work. Not sure how long it takes to paint a painting, but I bet it’s a long time. And I am guessing the art world is harder to break into than the book world.
Or music; okay, never mind, it’s easier to distribute music these days. But would I make money? (not with me singing, my son would be happy to point out) Probably not. And I would need to work with other musicians, and have time and training and expensive instruments and recording equipment.
But a book?
I can write the book of my dreams on my own (I’ve already got a computer. And an imagination). Theoretically, of course.
So today’s post is short, since I’ve got to finish other work, and then get to writing. I’ve got a dream to follow.
Thanks for putting up with my whining,