I’ve changed a lot since I started writing this blog ten years ago. Like…a lot. And I don’t mean who I am fundamentally as a person, or what I enjoy doing, that sort of thing. It’s always the smaller stuff, and even that’s because it’s so freaking hard.
I can set a writing goal, now, and accomplish it. Like, I’m going to write two books this year. For the first time ever. I didn’t have the most banner writing day today, but I will tomorrow. I know that sitting here in bed tonight: I’ll hit my page goal tomorrow. That genuinely used to be impossible for me. I didn’t even know ten years ago that I wanted to write books. Or why my stories just didn’t seem to come together the way I wanted them to. I knew there were problems, but I didn’t know where the problems were or what to do to fix them. Now…I certainly don’t have all the answers now, but I do know the answer to the basic “what makes a story work or not work” questions. And that feels huge. It’s a starting line, anyway. It’s a foundation. I can see it in the reviews of my books, or the people I know who read them. They work. They’re not the best thing ever, yet, but they WORK and they’re a satisfying read. So…I’m not excellent yet…but I am competent. And competent is all you need to become a professional.
I just know who I am more and what I want. And it’s not an accident, all of this change. It was—continues to be—hard fucking work. Like, therapy. And reading. And practice. And classes. And getting my ass out of bed early. It’s a hustle. I could sit back and kick up my feet…but I don’t want to. Most of the time. I want to hustle.
So, yeah. I suppose that hasn’t ever changed. I just hustle a lot better now than I used to.
Night night.