I am grateful this Thanksgiving for, besides my readers, finally having enough sense to say to hell with National Novel Writing Month and writing my book on my own damn time. For finally figuring out that Chris Baty is just a dope with a website who doesn't determine my writing career, and that this book will get done when it gets done and no sooner.
Morrissey once sang, "There's more to life than books, you know," and I'm starting to realize that. For so long, I defined myself by my work. I had to work harder, stronger and more than everyone else because I had to prove that I could, that I wasn't just another lazy slob like everyone thought I was. It was routinely suggested by both friends and family that I not even bother applying to most colleges, because I wasn't good enough to get in. What that instilled in me was a merciless drive to succeed, to prove them wrong, often at the cost of my health or employers taking advantage of that ethic as a means of paying me less for more work . . . but this past year has shown me that none of that really matters. What matters is the friends that I love, my fluffy kitten and my boyfriend.
This isn't to say that I've given up on writing or that I'm taking a step back. Not at all. I still have that drive to succeed, but it's going to be on my terms. I'm not going to kill myself for another book that won't sell. I'm not going to beg for acceptance anymore. And it is that peace, that faith that something larger than myself will sustain me, that I am most grateful for this year.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Morrissey once sang, "There's more to life than books, you know," and I'm starting to realize that. For so long, I defined myself by my work. I had to work harder, stronger and more than everyone else because I had to prove that I could, that I wasn't just another lazy slob like everyone thought I was. It was routinely suggested by both friends and family that I not even bother applying to most colleges, because I wasn't good enough to get in. What that instilled in me was a merciless drive to succeed, to prove them wrong, often at the cost of my health or employers taking advantage of that ethic as a means of paying me less for more work . . . but this past year has shown me that none of that really matters. What matters is the friends that I love, my fluffy kitten and my boyfriend.
This isn't to say that I've given up on writing or that I'm taking a step back. Not at all. I still have that drive to succeed, but it's going to be on my terms. I'm not going to kill myself for another book that won't sell. I'm not going to beg for acceptance anymore. And it is that peace, that faith that something larger than myself will sustain me, that I am most grateful for this year.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
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