On Writing

The trouble with being a writer, especially an aspiring, as-yet-unpublished writer such as myself, is that no one actually believes you're a writer. No one believes you're actually doing something with your life, because they don't see you writing every day. They see you humping some meaningless 9-5 job that everyone knows won't lead anywhere, and that's it. People believe what they see, and they don't get to see the part of your day when you sit down at the computer screen or the desk with a blank sheet of paper and a pen. They don't get to see what you're really, truly passionate about. They don't know what really makes you come alive. They continue to think that you're wasting your days away, when in reality, you're accomplishing more than most people do in 10 years. At a thousand words a day, the current project I'm working on has taken on a life of its own, and its chugging down the tracks faster and better than I could've ever hoped for. But the proof isn't there for everyone else. Though I'm going to finish my first novel by the time I'm 25 (something many people dream of doing, then find themselves at 60, with nothing to show for it), no one will acknowledge that I'm a writer until there's a physical book in their hand. And even then, I'm afraid, they won't care.

It's hard to hold onto your dream when no one else believes in you. It's hard to believe in yourself when everyone else has more tangible, physical evidence of where they're going in life. But I've realized that you have to believe in yourself and in the integrity of your passion, because no one else will. Even your friends.

It's hard having a passion that no one else shares with you. It's a lonely, solitary life, being a writer. You know things no one else knows, you think thoughts that no one else thinks, your mind dwells on subjects that most people never think about. I often wonder if that is the nature of writing: privacy. I frequently get the feeling that I have this entire world in which I dwell completely alone, an internal realm that no one else really knows about, let alone is willing to enter.

There is a quote I have had stuck in my brain since I was in early high school. "To be alone is the fate of all great minds - a fate deplored at times, but still always chosen as the less grievous of two evils." Now, I don't say that I have a great mind, only that I have a singular mind, a mind that has yet to find its kindred. I have yet to find a person that can equal my passion, interest, and hope in what it means to write. I can only hope that one day I will find like minds, minds with which I can share this internal world of mine.

In the mean time, I will continue to tick off the pages, in my private little world, until I finally have something to show for my efforts.