Life, it’s not fair, and it’s not easy. It’s hard, it’s not often considerate, and it’s challenging, especially for some artists. After all, it’s not a career path with any guarantees—in success, or income. But then, not all of us choose the path. It just happens. I sure didn’t pick it on purpose. What rational person would?

But here I am, battling depression, suicidal thoughts and…some other issues in my home/personal life. And oddly, it’s my writing that helps most. It’s the salve for my wounds as it were. Between that and my friends, despite everything else, things often are—bearable. Now that’s not a synonym for okay, or great, but sometimes, it’s enough. And enough is always what you need to just get by. And sometimes, just getting by is a win. It’s life.

Nobody wakes up and goes, I want to be an artist of any sort because I’m going to make lots of money starting out, be rich, and famous and it’s a safe path. It just happens. I was sitting at home on summer break just graduating high school. I knew what I wanted to be, a lawyer. I had good grades, not the best, but I had a great college I could go to, and a career path laid out.

Then I decided to write a novel. I still don’t know why. It just happened, as oft things do in life. It was the worst thing I’d ever written, that’s in comparison to last minute school essays and reports. It was also by far the most fun I had ever had. My plans were gone. Everything rewrote itself for my life in an instant without any thought. Everything clicked. This is what I want to do with my life. I went to a community college instead, trying to figure out just a daily normal path while I write.

It didn’t go so well. Lots of bouncing around and changing majors and just dropping out. Why bother spending time and money on pursuits I knew I wasn’t interested in, would devote all my attention and passion too, and just use up my time? So, I started writing more.

7 years later I have a novel published, it’s coming to print, and my personal home life makes hell seem like a holiday resort you visit in the winters to escape cold climates. But, I’m still just trying. I know there are no guarantees, there are times when I want to lay down and say die. Honestly, I still don’t know why I’m so adamant.

I’ll say it here, I still know there are no guarantees for me making it. Yet…part of me (the stupid part) believes otherwise. That as long as I keep writing, someone will keep reading, and that those numbers will grow as time passes. People read, the more I write, more people have a chance to see what I write, and so on. Law of Inevitability.

It’s not rational, but then, neither is being an author. I just am. I guess I’m here because something is clearly wrong with me, and then, my friends who are my real family and are endlessly supportive. They’re honestly the only reason why I’m not in a ditch, and am still writing.

But, why am I writing? I still don’t know why I chose it. I just don’t. It feels write, and it was never on my list of options of careers. So like I said, maybe I didn’t choose it. I know it sounds silly. But then, so is embarking on a path where I have literally no income, and the only thing I have to show for it are peoples opinions on amazon, buried among a zillion other writers.


But, it’s life, and I’m just trying to get through it. Some days it’s hard, some days it’s worse, some days it’s enough to get by. Right now, I’m just getting by. I hope it’s enough. One day, maybe I’ll be able to let everyone know that it does work out.

Till then, it’s just life, c’est la vie.

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