I’ve been saying ever since I started this whole “working part time and trying to be a writer” thing that the only way I’m going to be able to tell whether or not it was a good idea is in hindsight. If I look back on it in 5, 10, 20 years from on top of a pile of money/awards/fan mail (I guess I’m still not clear on what the parameters of success for a writer are. And apparently I haven’t heard of bank accounts or shelves) then I will think “Yes, this was the right choice.” There are… other potential outcomes.
Most of the time, I can cope with that. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained”, that sort of thing. Sometimes, however, I fail to cope with it in spectacular style. Tuesday night was one of those times. There was hyperventilating. There was ugly crying. It was embarrassing.
Actually, it didn’t have to be, because there was no one there to see it. But it occurs to me that at some point my blog could be read by someone who is thinking of taking a risk to go after something they want. And I want to be honest with that person. This is SCARY. I’m scared all. the. time. The only thing that keeps me going is this burning desperation. I want to be a successful writer – even though I can’t even figure out what that means yet – more than anything else in the world. And the only way I can think of doing that is to hurl myself into writing until I’ve used up everything I’ve got.
Perhaps more importantly, I’m also terrified of looking back at the end of my life and feeling like I didn’t try, or like I could have tried harder. I guess I find the fear I have right now easier to live with.