The other day I was sitting at my desk, thinking. I do this a lot, but usually they are thoughts of the should I use a comma here or why isn't that centre aligned variety.
I was sitting there, drinking a tea, staring at nothing, and thinking about how long it's been since I was truly, mind-blowingly passionate about something.
I love my job. I love what I do, I believe in what our organization does and aims to achieve. I love my boss, my coworkers, and the tasks on my to do list.
I have hobbies I enjoy, I'm working hard to lose weight and love myself, and I'm in love with someone pretty cool, who shares my "atrocious taste in TV" and doesn't mind that my idea of fun on a Tuesday is sitting on the couch in my pj's, reading smutty books or watching BBC Sci-fi about a Vampire, a Werewolf and a Ghost that live in a house together.
It's actually pretty simple to keep me happy, when I admit to myself that despite pressure I feel from god knows where (my friends? some belief I have about what life should be like when you're 26? I don't know), going to the bar or a party every night would (and has) left me feeling empty. Like a dead battery.
But it's been awhile since I felt aflame with passion for something - until I started NaNoWriMo.
It's a novel-writing contest. There are no prizes, only bragging rights. Write 50,000 words in November - as simple as that.
So I sit at my laptop and churn out word after word. I'm doing quite well, past the 10K mark that usually freaks me out.
But last night I couldn't do it. I couldn't get past the idea that what I was writing was a giant piece of wasted time and energy. That all this effort was ever going to amount to was pages and pages of crap.
I guess that's the point. First drafts are crappy. I've never written a novel before.
You know when you think about what type of work would make you truly happy? I am happy at my job, but when I imagine my fantasy world, I'm always a writer. A novelist. I work from home, or from cafes, going to meetings, eavesdropping in line at the grocery store and turning those interactions into minor characters. I dream about going to bookshops and watching as people flip through something I created, out of nothing. I dream about wearing big thick sweaters and working late into the night in a fit of creative spark and drinking lots of tea.
But I am so scared. I'm scared that I'm actually doing it now, I'm writing a book, and it is awful, and in 30 days and 50,000 words, that dream up there will be gone forever.
And then what will I do?
1 day ago