I love to write. When I first started, this was simply a project that my spouse and I shared as a hobby. We wrote, laughed, made up endings, and talked about a different world then the one in which we live
But some days the fear of what I'm doing is almost paralyzing.
You see, every so often, I question if I'm good enough to keep up at this complicated endeavor of creating a world and getting it down on paper. My wife eats books like locus, and I see all the other talented and amazing writing out there. When I stare at the shelves of books that surround me. I wonder why did I toss my hat into the ring? The answer to that question came to me from a random conversation I had not to long ago.
My sister-in-law, Sarah, was sharing a story about a friend she works with in Atlanta. (Side note: Sarah is an amazing massage therapist. If you're ever in Atlanta, go get a massage.) Anyway, Sarah was telling her friend about how, when faced with a big problem on what to do, you have to ask yourself "Will it matter in ten years?"
That thought struck me hard. Every day that I struggle with learning to write, with improving my craft, and not becoming discouraged, I remind myself of this very idea.
You know what? In ten years this will matter to me. What will mean something is the fact that no matter the path I am on (I might never make a million dollars or be on the New York Times Bestsellers list) writing gives me a feeling I don't have words for. I love the irony in that. All the words I put down can never describe the warmth in my chest when I finish the last edit or type the last word on the page.
Dreams are a funny beast, but they're worth chasing. Today I will dust myself off and slip on my running shoes.
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