Some dreams die hard. Some just flit away, untethered balloons drifting into the clouds. I’m glad my dream didn’t just crash and burn, it really was a slow dance up until this point, something I’ve tangled with for about a year now, and I’m ready to let it go.
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I could first form words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs. I wrote hundreds of stories when I was young, first by hand, filling up legal pads with my tales, then by typewriter, pecking away until stories were finished to my liking. There were a lot of garbage pails filled with crumbled up paper. But there were also a lot of finished stories.
I do consider myself a writer of sorts. I write. I publish my little essays and stories here. I have been published — for pay — in various magazines. I was a paid writer for Forbes for a while. I contributed to some now defunct sites. I completed a novel. But — there’s always a but — I’m not the writer I wanted to be. I wanted to be well read. I wanted my name known. I wanted to have a steady income from writing. The blame for all that not happening certainly lies with me. I’ve been a little gun-shy about sending things out. My anxiety gets the best of me. And when I do send something out and get a rejection, I immediately give up and just throw it up here on medium instead of sending it somewhere else. My heart, my brain can’t take all that rejection. I was, in fact, not cut out to be a writer.
I had dreams. Dreams of a published essay collection. Dreams of a published novel. Dreams of turning my 100 word stories into a book. Dreams of steady writing for publications. Slowly I realized those dreams were not going to happen, partly due to my lack of diligence, partly due to the fact that I’m not as good as the writers out there making a living. I’m an imposter, a wannabe, a poser. These are the things I tell myself at 3am while I contemplate my lack of a writing career.
I am tired. Tired of chasing the dream. Tired of pretending that I am better than what I am. Tired of having 20 people read something I put my heart into. Tired of thinking that, at age 56, I can get off the ground running. I’m mentally drained, my depression weights on me, my anxiety is relentless. I just can’t do it.
And so I’ll call it quits. I’ll still write here occasionally when the mood strikes, but I’m no longer going to dream that little dream of a writing career, of selling anything. I will still be a writer, but I will never be a Writer. And that’s ok. Giving up on a dream is almost freeing. I’m letting go of all that stress and anxiety that comes with not living out your goals for yourself. I’m freeing myself from the anxiety. I’m watching that balloon sail into the clouds and I’m just exhaling while it sails away. No more pretending. No more unrealistic expectations. No more.
I want to thank anyone who ever read what I wrote, everyone who encouraged me to power forward even when I felt like I was standing still, everyone who ever said a kind word about my writing. It’s been great writing with you in mind, but I’ve reached the point in my “career” where I’m just going to write for myself, for the sake of writing, and not for any other reason. I won’t be looking to sell anything, I won’t be writing failed pitches anymore, I won’t write with certain publications in mind. I’ll just clack away at the keyboard at 4am in a blogging sort of fashion because while a Writer is something I’m not, writing is something I need to do. It will just be with a different frame of mind, from a different place. All the pieces I wrote with intent to pitch will take on a different form. My novel? I don’t know what will happen with that. I might self publish it just for friends and relatives to read.
It may sound like I’m giving up and, well, I am. I just feel like I’m too long into this life to struggle at something that is obviously going nowhere. I’m old. I’m closer to 60 than I am to 50 now and that scares me, I feel like I’ve spent too much of my life struggling to accomplish something that’s not going to happen. Giving up is the best thing I can do for my mental health.
The dream is over. It feels ok to let it go.
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You can read my 100 Word Stories — I’m most proud of these — here.
My short fiction is here.
The rest of my essays are all within the pages here.