They said writing books wasn’t a career. This Person knew someone (one) who had published a few books and didn’t make any money. In This Person’s opinion my dream was meaningless because my odds of becoming wealthy doing it are slim to none. As if monetary wealth is a true determination of riches.
This Person is someone who I thought had my back. I envisioned This Person’s name printed in the Acknowledgments section of my future published novels. This Person had claimed they believed in me and my writing many times in the past, yet there they were, belittling my dream.
I cried. I defended myself. I cried some more. But I just kept plummeting, and This Person continued to get smaller as they blurred through my tears and faded from my vision. I kept waiting to hit rock bottom, to hit so hard it would leave me bruised and broken.
But that didn’t happen.
Because I have wings.
Wings made of passion, perseverance, love for the craft, love for storytelling, and love for myself. Wings made of two parents who believe in me no matter how many times I’ve failed or let them down; including a mother who reads, critiques, and sees potential in every word I write. Wings made of best friends who have known me for years and believe in my characters, including the ones named after them. Numerous wings of writing friends who not only read my stories and tell me what’s brilliant and what needs serious work, but who cheer me on and remind me that each seemingly failure is a step towards success.