Continuing where I left off with my Confessions Of A Writer series, this is Confession #4 on the list:
4. I think there is a stigma attached with being a creative type, whether painter or writer. The stigma that if you have not “made it” within a couple of years, then you should put your pursuit of a creative career on hold to focus on a more “stable” career, a career with a steady paycheck and benefits. There is a giant string attached to that “stable” career, however, and that is that it does not necessarily provide you with happiness.
You know, happiness? That often talked about, dreamt about, written about concept that becomes seemingly alien as many get older. Those many use life as an excuse for letting true happiness fall by the curb, saying that bills need to get paid and a whole other laundry list of reasons. But there comes a time when you have to ask when do you start paying yourself? When do you start being happy? Because those bills will always be there; it does not matter if you have $50 in the bank or $5 million. But you will not always be here.
I know for one, I want to be remembered for the type of person I was, and that includes never giving up on my writing career. Come what may, I want to die with a pen in my hand and a notebook beside me.