“You can be anything you want,” they said. “The sky’s the limit. The world is your own.”
“I want to be a writer,” I said. “I want to tell stories; books full of dreams and adventures and lovers united and overcoming adversity with faithful pets by my side.”
“You can be a writer,” they said, “but you have to do something else instead. Be the writer in your free time.”
“I will be a writer,” I said, determined.
And I did. I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote…
Until I didn’t write anymore. I read instead. I read all kinds of things. I read about histories and past lives and other places and fictional places and even fantastical places. I read about survival and travel and people falling in and out of love. I read it all.
And still I thought about writing. I didn’t care about what I wrote, as long as I was writing. And then I blogged about myself and what I liked to read and what I did and where I went. I didn’t go far, but still I wrote. I even wrote what I thought about different things.
“Be a writer in your spare time,” they said. This is what kept remembering in my head and sometimes I stopped writing altogether. I no longer wanted to write because writing was too much. Why keep trying when it takes me nowhere? I wrote in my journal, complaining about things that bugged me, worrying about things that I shouldn’t be.
And still I thought about it, the writing. I don’t know what I want to write, I thought, but still I want to write. Even if it kills me.
And so, she still writes. She wants to write it all, and maybe one day she will write more than little essays and commentaries. But at least she is writing and continuing to write.
And one day, she will be writing all the time.
And one day, she will say,
“Writing is my all the time. Writing is what I want. I am writing now.”
This prompt came from Medium’s “Write Here” Prompts, “What do you wish you could write?” If you want to see all the prompts from the “Be a Little Brave” post, you can find them here.