I eat and breathe and sleep and live this writing life. It consumes my heart and mind, hardly giving me rest.
I’m filled with thoughts of stories and ideas, titles and characters and worlds and languages. I feel like I don’t have enough time to fill pages with these stories. Not enough empty moments to sit down and write.
I’m having to learn how to balance my life and my stories. How to balance my work and still have the strength and motivation to spend my weekends working on books and ideas .
And sometimes I wish I never had this dream in the first place. I wish I could lose these ideas if they’ll never go anywhere. It feels like a wasted dream if they stay in my house and my head and never see the light of day.
But I continue to write because if I don’t, then I can’t truly be me. My brain would explode from so many stories. I have to pen them down, even if no one reads them.
And that’s the hardest part of being a writer. We want to share our work, but we’ve chosen a path that’s rarely travelled and rarely successful. It’s depressing at times, but I’ll never stop. I cannot when words are the lifeblood to my existence.