At any given moment, a writer gives up on her dreams and devotes their life to something much easier.
And who could blame her?
I mean, why would anyone want to make a living searching for words to articulate this life?
What a pitiful and torturous way to feed the kids.
So, I semi-applaud anyone who sees fit to make an honest, easy living.
Because writing is hard.
And good writing is like surgery without the prestige of holding a Phd.
Still, many brave (or equally unqualified) writers decide to keep at it.
Not because they believe that they are the next big thing.
Or that because they’ll get rich.
Or that they will land a book deal.
Many writers keep writing because of this simple reason: They don’t know what they’d be doing if they didn’t write.
They couldn’t imagine a world or a life where they couldn’t express themselves.
And in fact, to imagine something like that even remotely, causes them to itch.
So they keep going despite doubt and discouragement and debt.
They keep believing that this loop of written thought is worth something to someone.
Even if that someone is just themselves for now.
Because they see the value in themselves. And in the words. And in the feeling that they promote.
All is worth it to write.
Just for the sake of inner joy and peace and balance.
They are alright not knowing where the next meal will be.
So long as they can figure out what the next word will be first.
That, right there, is just a bit more satisfying to their appetites.
To their souls.
To their beings.
That is being tough and graceful.