I believe I’ve finally, finally let go of the belief that I am not valid unless I have a full-time job that entails being mandated to report to a certain location at the same time each day, taking a quick lunch break, and clocking out at the proper time, or staying late if necessary.
It turns out that is the writing life, as well, except that the mandate comes from myself. Because if I want to write, then I better write. Certainly no one will tell me I have to…as Steven Pressfield says, “No one wants to read your shit.”
I’ve spent a lot of my life withholding permission from myself to do things I’ve wanted to do. Although I’ve had a serious desire to travel since I was a young kid, I didn’t allow myself to do it. Same goes for writing. Everything in me screams writer as far back as I can remember but I’d tell myself that that goodness was for other people. Same for becoming fluent in Spanish. I’ve come so close on many different occasions only to back down at the last minute out of fear, not allowing myself, believing I didn’t deserve certain experiences, imposter syndrome, all kinds of things I’m finally sorting out.
So that’s it. I’m a writer. I write. And I spend time reading. Unashamedly.
I work at home, at the kitchen table, the dining room table, my desk upstairs, the table on the screen porch, and soon when the weather warms up, the foldable converting bench/picnic table in the yard. Sometimes my office is the library, sometimes coffee shops.
All work is valid and it’s individual. You do you.