Today, standing dramatically before a metaphorical expanse of water (in reality a series of seemingly unending mechanized moving belts carrying in-transited commercial product), I realized something important. I realized that for the past eight or so months, I have had only one job.
Now, this is not at all a bad thing, in general terms. I am extremely grateful for the job I have. It has acted as a life preserver in the sea that is the harsh reality of expensive American living.However, this generous, income-giving job has somewhat obscured what I have long believed to be my other, equally important job - writing.
Writing has become a hobby. It's something I do casually on my days off, a form of unwinding, a fun activity to de-stress from the work week. And there's nothing wrong with that. Unless of course, one is serious about the pursuit of achieving authordom.
And I decide, while peering out at the imaginary rolling waves of this calm, nonexistent lake, that the despite the importance and necessity and time consumption of my income-based job, that I do indeed wish to someday achieve, for myself, the title of author. And not simply for the sake of having such a title, but because I enjoy the craft of literature and enjoy sharing it with others and what better way to share it than to become published to some sort of degree as an author.
And I decide that the only way to achieve this dream, this title, is to discard the idea of writing-as-hobby. Because yes, I enjoy writing and story-crafting very much as one does a hobby, and it is indeed something I am quite passionate about and that I find fun (most of the time...) but in order to achieve anything from it, ultimately, it must be treated as a job - hard work, real work, same as any other job.