About two months ago I made myself a promise to write a minimum of 500 words a day on a particular project. So far, with one minor mishap, I’ve made it.
The project is coming along nicely.
There will be edits.
But I also spend time writing at the day job. I spending time writing on the blog. I spend time writing for the theater. And I spend time working on the novel.
I feel good about most of the things I’m writing. I feel good about of my blog posts.
Some days I feel better than others.
But I have to ask myself, “Who is going to read this?”
Will I ever actually sell a book?
I may not.
But I think the real question is, am I writing it because I want to sell it. Or am I writing it because I have a story (or stories) to tell?
I know the answer.
I may never make the New York Times Bestseller list. I may never sell the rights to my novel to Hollywood for bazillions of dollars.
I still need to write.
Trust me. I wish I could connect the two.
I wish I could write myself a fortune. Maybe one day I will.
But I can’t stop writing just because it’s not bringing in the big bucks.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m making some money writing.
What I’m not doing is becoming independently wealthy.
Yet.
So what is it that you must do that takes up your time? Are you able to make that your life sustaining work?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Some people can. I think people like teachers, doctors, ministers, and others can say “I was born to do this.”
I was born to write.
I was also apparently born to spend more than two decades working for the government.
These are the chains I forged in life.
Ooo…that’s a good line. I should use it.
Oh. Wait.
Here’s the point, I think.
I don’t write, or act or paint for that matter, simply to make a living. I’d love it if I could. Many people have and maybe one day I will.
I write because I’m a writer, and I’ve got stories to tell.
Lots of ’em.