Am I willing to face disappointment?
The long and short answer to that question is…YES!
Although, how I got the answer to that question may be a little more complicated.
My story as an author is not unique, in fact, it is almost cliché. I have been an avid reader since I learned how to read. I was a rockstar in English class and in my mind, every story that I wrote was going to be the next New York Times Bestseller. I went to college and got further confirmation that I was indeed on the path to greatness.
Fast forward to finally graduating from college with a degree in words and attempting to write my first book. I left the safety of my liberal arts program where professors embraced my wild and crazy ideas and nurtured my creativity, and I found the real world to be daunting.
I was f*ing terrified!
I was scared to pursue a career writing in a genre that the media, literary community, hell even my family and friends viewed as smut or trash. I was afraid that as a Black author my voice and tone were not viable in a community dominated by people that don’t look like me, share my background or views. (SIDE NOTE: I’m not just addressing ethnicity. I’m talking about socioeconomics, education, religion, etc.)
I’ve lost count of how many books that I started and trashed because I was so focused on how they would be perceived or because halfway through a manuscript I attempted to change my voice and tone so that I didn’t come across as too Black, too dirty, too liberal…TOO MUCH of the wrong thing. Not only was I afraid. I was insecure about my ability to do the one thing that I’d trained for and had dreamed about for years.
So I held on to my words. I buried them under the guise of being an adult. I shelved the idea that writing was my vocation and opted instead to get a “responsible” job. One that offered access to benefits and a solid retirement plan. Something that paid my bills but drained my creativity. But hey when I’m sixty-five and that pension kicks in I’ll have it made, right? Yeah…not so much.
I was miserable. For those of you in the back row that didn’t quite get that let me repeat…I WAS F*ING MISERABLE. It became a struggle to get up every morning and go into a job that paid my bills but made me physically ill. I could barely tolerate my coworkers (it was entirely me not them), and my job performance was subpar on the best of days which made me feel even worse.
At thirty-five years old life picked me up by the collar and b*tch slapped me. All the things, other than writing that I poured myself into fell by the wayside. I was broken-hearted and achingly empty.
Then I became a fan of Super Soul Sunday (Love me some Oprah), and I found my spiritual center (It didn’t look like the religion I was raised with, whole different story). I began to critically look at my life and my goals in an attempt to figure out why I was so unhappy.
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Great article
If I didn't know better, I would think you were writing about me. Great article. A point of view I totally get.