“Just get a real job and do that other stuff in your free time.”
“Ha, be real. Find a job and excel at it. Those are kid dreams you have.”
“You’ll never make it. Get a job and make the money needed for bills.”
“I think you can do it, but don’t keep your hope up if it fails. Ya know? Find something else you’re good at.”
“I am just being realistic. I mean, you’re really enthusiastic and wanting so much from the first edition. There will be edits after edits. Plus, no one does an anthology for their first novel.”
Yeah flippin’ right! Be realistic? Being realistic means allowing the world to chew me up like every one else without putting up a fight. The world consumes dreams and souls, digests them down to mere ideals lost to age, and then regurgitate them as failed accomplishments and regrets that linger over the death bed.
I know my stories may never reach the public. I know it’s a pipe dream to be a successful author as a maintainable career. I know I may never have a softcover sitting on some stranger’s coffee-table in Japan. That’s not the point. It’s about dreaming for better, working for the ideal. It’s about living life to the fullest, which begins with the mind releasing its creativity and desire.
I already have doubt. I don’t need others to doubt with me. I don’t need realistic constructive criticism. I need blindly foolish optimism. Not lies, but “wishful thinking” dialogue and push.
No, I need my old mindset: I don’t give a flip about what you think, or believe. This is me, my drive, my dream. I will make it. Failure be damned, I will write. My heart will pump the necessary gallons of life, my brain will spark continuous imagination, and all the while my fingers shall peck away at the keyboard hoping to do it all justice.
I wake up with stories on the mind, and I slip away to the efforts of Nyx with more stories pressing. I am cursed with imagination and lack-luster flair to illustrative detail. I write, because in this world of Chaos, it is all I truly have to call mine.
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