Hi.
I’m back.
If you hadn’t
noticed—and I bet most of you have—I’ve been sadly lacking in my blog posts for
the past several weeks. Six, to be
precise. That’s not something I’m particularly
proud of. Over these last weeks, I’ve
had to make some sacrifices to stay sane.
Unfortunately, I decided to sacrifice the wrong thing.
You see, work—the thing
that gave me a paycheck every other Friday—was dragging me down. Stressing me out. Something had to give, and I chose the
writing. Why? Not because I wasn’t dedicated to my craft,
but because I have responsibilities and the pay was good. So I chose the thing that paid the bills, not
what made me happy.
Now, I sit here before
you, unemployed. I’ve been in many
different states in my life, denial being the other one I’m particularly fond
of. Fond, of course, being used in a
most sarcastic way. Because, you see, I
had myself fooled that this job was worth the time, effort, and sacrifice. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.
That burns a
little. More than a little, if I’m to be
honest. I worked, sweated, cried, and
sacrificed for nothing. To make matters
worse, I gave up all those things that make me who I am—my passions. I became a robot and a fool. No one likes to be made a fool of, even if
it’s only in his own head. There were
days that I couldn’t make myself write more than a few lines or edit a page or
two before stopping for the night. Let’s
forget about writing blog posts.
The thing was, I was all
right with it. My parents did a lot for me
growing up. The older I get, the more I
learn they did for me. That being said,
one of those things they got through my thick skull was the importance of
working hard, and, if you care enough for something, you sacrifice for it. Before now, I’d been sacrificing everything
for my writing. I lost time with family
and friends. Money that could have been
used for other things—some frivolous, some not—instead went to an editor or
supplies. Let’s not talk about my
health. But I was fine with it.
You see, throughout my
life, I’ve been smart enough to skate by.
As an adult, this isn’t something I’m proud of, but as a kid? “Good enough” was, simply put, good
enough. But when things got hard, I
stopped and gave up, moving on to other, easier things. This bad habit has stuck with me into
adulthood. And even though I know I’m
doing it, it’s hard to fight.
Writing was one of the
first things I didn’t stop doing when the going got tough. I don’t know how many times I was knocked
down, but each time I picked myself up and started at it again, pounding
against that wall with fists, ink, or whatever else was available. It’s made a difference. Now, it’s a solace, a place of refuge. I wouldn’t give it up for the world.
But I did.
That’s why it grinds so much.
I gave up a passion for a paycheck.
As a kid, way back when, I promised myself I’d never do that. Yet, here as an adult . . . Yeah.
I betrayed myself. I betrayed my family and friends. I betrayed my dream. The last is nearly impossible to live
with. So, despite my dreams, it feels
blatantly wrong sitting here writing something for a blog when I have cover
letters to type up. What right do I have
to spend my life enslaved to the written word if I’ll give it up, give up my
dreams, at the promise of a paycheck? Is
any amount of money worth giving up your dreams?
I am a fan of trivia
game shows. For years, K has been trying
to get me to sign up and get on one.
Various excuses have kept me away, the main one being pride. Well, yesterday I had a realization forced
upon me by a friend. Pride only goes so
far, and eventually you’ll be willing to sell it for the right price. He pointed out to me that pride prevents me
from going on a game show, but I’d do it if it meant my novel, my dream, would become a reality.
And he’s right.
Knowing the man, he’s
probably the only person who could make me see it. He’s sacrificed for a dream and now does what
I want to do for a living. Not running a
comic store like he does, but rather making a living off my passion. You will sacrifice so much if you’re able to
do what you love for the rest of your life.
I don’t think anyone else could have made that connection and made me
accept it as readily as he did.
If I’m to be honest, it
makes a fatalistic sort of sense, too.
Everything since I took the first steps on The Red Dress has pointed my feet toward writing. All roads lead to Rome. Rome being writing. I’ve met some great people doing this. My friends and family are fully behind
me. Can I count the personal
satisfaction and happiness, too?
Encouragement comes from too many directions to count. It’s too late to give up. I’m too caught up in it. This is my life, and I only get one of those.
So I can’t feel guilty
about it anymore. I need to be focusing
on this blog, editing The Red Dress,
and writing the follow-up. No, I can’t
do it all the time. I do need to find a job. Cover letters need to be written, and bills
need to be paid. But all this feeling-bad-for-wasting-time
nonsense has to go out the window. This
experience, if nothing else, has forced me to realize what’s important to
me. And while money’s nice, it sure as
hell isn’t everything. Peace of mind and
happiness stack up for quite a bit.
It isn’t so much that I
have to make amends for my time in the land of the misbegotten. Rather, it’s another instance of picking
yourself up after hardship, dusting yourself off, and going right back at
it. I never completely stopped writing,
you see. Just mostly. And that was bad enough. This was a learning experience. Now I know what’s important. Now I know what to sacrifice for.
And that’s just as important as the will and ability to give it all up
for a greater cause.
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