Recently, I had a little breakdown. You know the kind I'm talking about, where you get all snot-sobby pathetic and throw papers across the room and stuff? It wasn't pretty. After a
In the short course of my writing career, thus far, I have fought many demons—both internal and external—and lived to write another day. The demons, though all different in their ferocity and form, arrive taunting me with the same question: "How bad do you want it?" Sometimes, like the sorry afternoon mentioned above, I think I don't want it that much. I consider letting go of my dreams, my goals, my aspirations and getting a nine-to-five.
Then the panic sets in. The idea of not telling the stories that itch and scratch under my skin, that claw and fight their way out of me, while my fingers fly across the keyboard, makes my bones turns to jelly and my heart simultaneously silent and thunderous. That's how I know. I know that I want this so very badly. Every inch of my body and soul needs to be here, with the words spilling out of me, translating the tales that are whispered into my ear or sung in my mind like a record with a skip, until I soil the pretty white pages with their truths.
I will fight each demon that comes my way. I may falter and I may fall but I will not give up. As they say, my friends, the pen is mightier than the sword.