I woke up today, for the first time in as long as I can remember, feeling good. Even though I’m recovering from a nasty head cold, I still wanted to get up (even before my alarm! *gasp*), because I had important things to do. Not things I “had” to do, but things I wanted to do.
Yes, I do “have” to do these things, like my writing and social media, in order to progress my desired career, but the feeling behind it is different now.
When I was writing over the last year, I worried I was wasting my time. My significant other had given me the opportunity to spend a whole year working towards my dream, without having to work, yet I never quite believed I’d be able to finish. That made it hard to rally motivation, which fed my self-depreciation and feeling of uselessness, and through this vicious cycle, I often really struggled to put words on the page. This fear lasted until the last word was written and I realized, in shock, that I had done it.
There were times when words came easily and characters used my hands to tell their story, but there were also many times where it felt like trying to dig a tunnel through a mountain with a spoon. Some days, it was a large metal serving spoon, but others it was plastic, brittle and futile. On the best days, I found dynamite.
I love writing. Well…when it’s what I want to write. When I was younger, my mom shoved English and grammar down my gullet, and I had an insatiable love of books. There was no greater escape than a novel, and I ate them up like peanut M&M’s. Even in grade school, I would get scenes in my head and write them, but never had the attention span to finish the thought and make a whole story.
Until now, I never finished a single story. Not one.
I beat myself up a lot this last year, feeling like I should have more motivation if this was really what I was meant to do. Guess what? I’ve realized that’s not how life works.
We have to choose our passions. Every. Single. Day.
Friends and family, career, ourselves . . . no matter what it is, it is a choice, and we renew that choice each time we wake up. I didn’t always choose writing. Sometimes it was sleep, or chores, or video games and junk food with my significant other. Life finds a way, though, and writing crept in often enough to get me where I am (still with a lot ahead, but farther along than I was).
It doesn’t matter if you’re a medical school student fighting for the right to heal people, a mother/father struggling to keep a household in one piece, or a writer trying to make it against the odds. What you have to give is important.
There are literally hundreds of thousands of blogs, books, and articles that say the same thing, but you’re here, reading my words. If those words inspire even one person to choose their passions, despite not always feeling positive or good enough, I’ve made a difference and putting myself out here will be worth something.
Whew! That got deep. I had a completely different post intended for today, but this is what came out. If writing has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you have to let go of your intentions and see where you end up. The normal, introverted me would apologize for babbling, but my pen name alter ego told me ‘no’ lol.
The Introvert Author 