Sometimes I get asked a simple question. A question of fear from others about writing:
‘What if it was all for nothing? And you spent hundreds of hours and in the end, you aren’t published and you’re just another loser with a stack of unpublished books.”
Simple. I had fun spending all that time writing the crazy out of my head into existence. Writing taught me how to think critically of what I watch and read and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Sure, it has its downsides. Sometimes I can see entire plots because I’ve taught myself to recognize the elements that go into story building. I’ve walked the same path to make them myself. Concerning all that “lost time” which, in my eyes, isn’t lost to me, I spent it crafting and practicing. Lost time is sitting in front of the TV out of boredom and not doing a damn thing for months at a time and having no hobbies. I look at my father and I see this in him. He used to be so into music, an accomplished musician but now he is tired and sick of the world. He’s burned out. I hope I never get that way so I keep a variety to my rhythm. Variety is the name of the game for me. Writing the stories is different every time as well as my approach to the project itself. I don’t think writing something I can ever get sick of doing.
Writing agrees with me and I’m goddamn stubborn to keep afloat in the business as well. I’m sure my persistence will pay off in the end. Either way, shit will get done.