About ten years ago I decided that I want to become a writer. I was dreaming about becoming one of those best-selling authors that can live this exciting life of just spending time in solitude and write.
I spent my late teen years (18 and 19) trying to write. I knew I lacked the language skills. I knew that I need to keep practicing. But back then my head was wild. I had many stories to tell, and a great amount of worlds to explore. I was an avid reader, and a struggling writer.
As Virginia Woolf said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Back then I had no room of my own, and no money, and I was eager to write fiction.
Now I have a flat of mine, and a good income, but I don’t have the time or the imagination to write fiction. Most of the time I don’t feel motivated, nor inspired.
But my language has become better now, and I wish I can find that strong drive to put my heart and soul into writing, and finally live the dream I had ten years ago.
I owe to my 18 year-old me to publish a wonderful story. And receive good recognition.
I owe to my self now, because I decided to drop out of my graduate studies to focus on my hobbies after work, and on the weekend. But what am I doing after work and on the weekend? I’m wasting my time looking for inspiration instead of motivating myself to compose.
And then I go downtown, face the real world to end up having a drink instead of staying home, in my own room, saving my own money, to live up to my dream and write a piece of fiction.
Perhaps it’s time now to dedicate an hour every other day, to write, or to research an specific idea. And I have to promise myself to try harder this time. And keep trying to become a good author. So then my 18 year-old me would be proud.