It was a simple comment that wasn't made in an angry, condescending, or accusatory way. In fact, the actual comment had nothing to do with the direction my thoughts went, and yet I found myself driving the familiar route home and my mind was spinning.
In that brief 15 minute drive, I went from having had a wonderful evening with my wonderful man to suddenly being dissatisfied, frustrated, and on the verge of tears and a mini-meltdown. I got home, and spent the next hour and a half talking with my mother, unloading all my frustrations and fears.
It's no secret that I want to be a writer. It's also no secret that my current job is nowhere near me being a writer. The only things I write are emails. I never edit. I never get to be creative or think outside the box. I provide administrative support which means I file things, fold things, organize things. I answer questions, I fix AV problems, I let people into conference rooms. I take minutes, prepare notes, and inform team members.
This is a far cry from what I want my day to be. I want to sit at Starbucks and watch people for inspiration. I want to read things for style and descriptive ideas. I want to write in order to process through my questions, thoughts, ideas. I want to create something out of nothing. I want to create characters and places and stories from my imagination that touch people in their soul. I want to write stories that let people escape from the world for a little while, but when they get back causes them to want to act, to learn, to dream.
I want all of that. I crave all of that. And yet, I don't quite know how to get there.
About a year and a half ago, during the winter break of my senior year of college, I realized that I didn't want to be a journalist anymore. I loved journalistic writing, but I hated the politics of working for a newspaper. I realized that what I really wanted to do was write books, but I had been too afraid to straight up say, "I want to be a novelist," because saying "I want to be a journalist" is a little bit safer and more achievable. So I stuck with what was "safe" and "achievable" instead of my actual dream.
During that same break, I found a wonderful resource called the Christian Writers Guild. They provide online classes with mentoring from published authors. They have a conference every year with classes and critiques and all sorts of resources for Christian writers to come together and work on their craft, to produce it, to improve it.
So I decided that I was going to do it. I was going to be an author. I wasn't going to search for a job in the journalism field. I was going to take whatever job I needed to in order to make money so I could take these Christian Writers Guild classes, go to the conference, start writing and freelancing and producing fiction for the first time in years and then maybe, one day, I'd pick up a beautiful, hardback book and would see my name on it. My picture on the back, next to my biography, underneath a brief little snippet of the story itself or what the story was about.
And so now I'm sitting here. Seven months into my first full-time job. A year out from graduation. With ideas floating around in my head. But then there's this little voice that pops up.
"Are you kidding? You? Why would you think you could write a book that anyone would want to read? Why would you think you could write a story that no one's written before? You don't have anything unique to say. Everything you say is cliche. Everything you say has been said before. There's nothing special about you as a writer, so stick to your day job and put away those dreams."
I'm trying hard right now to combat that voice, but I'm discouraged. I'm frustrated because if I hadn't been in that damn car accident back in January, I'd have over $2000 that I could've spent on something other than a 13-year-old car. Something like a writing class, perhaps? Or membership to the Christian Writers Guild? Or my registration fee for the 2013 Writing for the Soul conference? Anything that maybe would've made me feel like I could actually be a writer someday.
I have so many other things I must think about when it comes to money. Rent. Insurance. Food. Gas. Phone. My cat. Savings. So many things that I have to pay for when I'd so much rather spend it on something that would allow me to start my writing career. (I really can't say "further" at this point because I haven't really started it.)
It's difficult for me to feel like someone would want to read the words I would write. That I could write a story that hasn't been told before. That I could write something that would interest people; that would make them think, laugh, cry; engage them. That little voice inside my head keeps telling me I can't do it.
But I want to. Even if I can't. Because I don't want to wake up in ten years never having at least tried.
Last year, while I was working at White Sulphur Springs, I was talking with a friend of mine on staff. I was telling him how I realized that I didn't want to be a journalist and that I really did want to write books. But I also wanted to get married and have kids one day. And he said something that made me think, that stuck with me.
He said, "Do it, Sarah. Don't be one of those moms who never does what she dreams of doing just because she has a kid. You better write a book and get it published one day."
The problem is, I'm not quite sure what I'm more afraid of. Never having tried? Or trying and finding out that I don't have what it takes? Trying and...failing?
