Last month I wrote about Writers and Moods. I didn’t realize I was repeating myself. Only in reading the comments did I pull this old post out of my memory. It was over a year old, and boy, have things changed since then.
Back then I was just writing for fun. Back then, I hadn’t yet finished a novel. I hadn’t published anything. I hadn’t made a cent off my work. And I was a hell of a lot more optimistic.
In the last year, while publishing, and eventually quitting my job to do this full time, I’ve learned a few things from writing:
It’s hard. Putting words on paper is a challenge as it is, but that’s only the beginning. Putting those words in the right order is the real hard part.
I try to remind myself that I have the best job on earth. I get up when I want. I take lunch when I want. I take breaks when I want. Most importantly, I write whenever and whatever the hell I want. And it is all the result of putting writing first – putting producing stories at the absolute, #1, non-negotiable priority.
So I wonder if I would go back.
If I could – which I can because the optimism and misery live in my own damn brain – would I go back to the realistic, but mildly optimistic self of last year? Could I make the conscious choice to take care of my self first and my work second?
I don’t know.
And there’s the cliche again. Addicted to mystery. Do I secretly crave the gloom and doom of my current mindset? Really, really honestly… if I could go back, would I?
Last year’s post, I knew that writing was miserable. But did I know it was addicting?