*Much love to those of you who have commented so far. It means a lot.*
Everyone told me when I was growing up that my true talent was in writing. I didn’t take writing seriously as an adult until I was in my mid 20’s, lost in the throws of the Great Recession, and found myself working in retail. I hated it. I couldn’t even find a job as a receptionist.
So I started writing. I didn’t make much that first year. I made around $500. And unfortunately due to a series of complications due to a disability, that was the most I made in a year.
It wasn’t until this last year again when I started to take my writing seriously. My health had stabilized. I had recovered from back surgery and I realized, wow look at all I survived.
I knew I had a lot of stories inside me waiting to come out. And they still are. I’m not making money as a writer right now. Most of my work is being done for nonprofits that can’t afford to pay me but I still get paid in experience.
There’s a feeling I get whenever I finish a piece of writing that’s hard to describe. Maybe it’s satisfaction. Maybe it’s knowing I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. I may never be Stephen King or Michael Crichton but I’ll always be a writer. A part time starving artist following her full time passion. And money, or the lack thereof, won’t deter me. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt either.