Recently, I quit my job. I hated my boss, I hated the hours, and I hated that I left my dreams in the dust. So, I quit. Instead, I work twenty hours a week and barely make enough to keep the collectors from towing my car.
I tricked myself. If I want to live comfortably, I need to write. I need to do freelance work and write every. damn. day.
This is all well and good, but doubt settles over me. I love writing, but am I good enough to purchase? Writing has never been about money for me, but I've made it about that now.
And I feel myself withdrawing, growing frustrated. It feels like a chore.
I want to create fiction. Facts aren't my niche, but facts are what pays. Sometimes, we have to do the stuff we're less passionate about to reach our dreams. At least this time, the work is related to writing. At least this time, it will help me to reach my goals.
I can never stop writing, even if I never reach a point where I can live off of this dream.