Writing is hard. If I weren’t so passionate, I think I would have given up writing years ago and pursued an easier hobby. Hell, I still wish that I could be good at anything–anything in the world–other than writing.
Still, there are moments of magic. I write and I feel like I finally cracked the code. I think that my style is superb, plot flawless, and characters third dimensional. The spell, of course, breaks when it’s time to edit. My masterpiece gets chipped and chipped away until I see my writing as it really is. An awful first draft that will turn into a slightly less awful second draft.
Recently, I’ve been looking at my English and Writing Arts double major. It’s a scary study to have because it’s hard to make it in the writing world. There’s a reason why “struggling writer” is a cliche. Everyone who likes to write even a little bit is trying to publish something. Everyone believes that they have what it takes to be the next Suzanne Collins, JK Rowling, Margaret Atwood, etc.
But not everyone can be. It’s hard to make it in the publishing world. It’s even harder to make it when I don’t work for my dream every day. I might have been a good writer in high school. But college has taught me that this means nothing. I might not be a good writer in the grand scheme of things. Even if I am it doesn’t mean that I’m going to make it as a writer. That I could make a career out of it.
In response to this fear, I realized I need to write a lot more. That I need to read a lot more. Edit a lot more. I need to push myself or fall by the wayside. It’s really a sink or swim world out there and I gotta make myself ready to be a professional before I graduate. Or else I’ll never be.