It’s been quite a year.
Can’t believe that only last year, I was still at the cusp of not being quite sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I was playing around with freelance editing and writing, considering getting my Environmental Engineering degree–which was a better fit for my skills–and get back to work someday, once I figure out childcare, and so on.
I was actually doing pretty well in my courses. The last one was a course on Green Buildings, and we had to do a sort of “environmentally friendly” housing. I ended up doing a bit more than we were required to do, complete with a Sketchup model. I quite liked doing it. I think in time I could be competent in the construction industry–I functioned partly as designer/general contractor of our own house and it hasn’t fallen over yet.
But there was definitely a Moana moment there. “I’ve been staring at the edge of the water…” etc. Nothing overly climactic, just something that’s always been part of me. You see…I have loved writing and storytelling for so long that I do it in my sleep. I hold no illusions about it–I know it won’t make me rich, especially not with how I write (with all my foolish, character-driven, genre-bending notions). So writing was always something I did on the side while I went off and did sensible things with my life. And don’t get me wrong–I was mostly encouraged by the people around me, although sometimes I’d get comments about how it should remain a “hobby.”
It’s not a hobby, though. I can’t quite step away from it. And it’s persisted all throughout my life as this thing that has kept me from achieving success anywhere else. I’d be sitting in class and instead of paying attention to the teacher, I’d be daydreaming about stories. Reading. Writing. Thinking about writing. I can give you a detailed timeline of my childhood and teens just by pulling out all the stories I’ve attempted in those years.
I’ve always felt disjointed, as a result. I forced myself to get by all these years, but it only feels right when I’m writing. I suck at everything else. Which is painful to admit for someone who likes putting in her best effort, even if the other party doesn’t see it that way.
Yesterday, I was feeling a bit down about myself in general and my friends lovingly pointed out how different my writing has been ever since I’ve gone all-out on it. Better. Not that they haven’t been saying it all this time, but I’ve got a short attention span and I always appreciate the support. And this is the thing I have to remember–it doesn’t matter how my work is perceived in the end, that I don’t achieve popularity or success in the way most people measure it. Between me and my craft, we’re okay. We’ve always been okay…I just didn’t listen before.
So here I am, a year later, sitting on the third novel I’ve completed in a year. Over 400,000 words written. My debut novel has gone from selling a copy a month (if I try really, really hard to network with people and they took pity on me) to selling…a bit more than that, without much effort from me. I now get…some…traffic to my website, as opposed to the dead silence of the years before that. People now seem excited about my releases, instead of asking, “Who are you again?” It’s still a long way to go, but I feel strangely at peace with all I’ve accomplished this past year, especially considering all the many other directions it could’ve gone.
Money’s tight; the course my heart wanted the most was the hardest. But I’ve made choices in the past that makes today easier on my decision–everything I earned in my other life went towards this house, so at least we’re not living in a rotten trailer anymore. And because we did so much of the work ourselves, we got a way bigger place than we would’ve otherwise been able to afford. My husband started a business last year, which I’ve been helping him out with, and it brings in pocket money. And staying at home means I can cook more, which helps with the budget. Little sacrifices. Big leaps.
Maybe next year, I’d like to get to a point where the writing at least pays for the kids’ snacks or something. I’m ever hopeful. But the craft takes precedence. The passion is all I need.
