I stumbled upon today’s risk during a fight with my husband. The details of the fight are unimportant here, but, as with most intense verbal exchanges, a truth bubbles up that was either buried down too deep for you to understand or too scary to get out unless it’s accompanied by clenched fists and a, “Will you ever understand me?!”
During this heated debate the topic of career came up and I realized that even though I want to pursue a career in writing, I haven’t actually, really, honestly put my best foot forward with it. Sure I’ve gotten some drafts done of a book. Ok, so I sent out that one potential piece to an anthology. But I haven’t approached this with the vigor and drive that I know I have in me. If I actually, really, honestly want this, then I’ve got to start thinking of it as my job. I have to recognize the worth in setting aside the funds for me to write in coffee shops because, oddly enough, it helps me concentrate. I’ve got to see how creating working hours and sticking to them is beneficial. I need to allow myself the time to research writing grants and actually submit to them. Basically, I have no choice but to give myself over to the scary thought of leaping and trusting that I have what it takes to make this work.
For the past year I have been flirting with this, making pretty eyes at it then running away and laughing at my ridiculousness, chiding myself for even considering it. But something keeps bringing me back. My chest tightens at all the failures that could befall me, from being rejected so often that I’m brought to tears to just not having the talent to warrant bringin’ home some bacon. My husband’s response to my moments of self doubt is apt here: “Sure, all that could happen. But if the possibility for failure is there, then the possibility of success is too.”