Being a Writer is Tough

Today was rough.

It started out with running late to work and oh yeah, I forgot to leave early to get gas. Okay, no big deal, I’ll get it on lunch. But then, that little light went on and, like always, I freaked out. I’m not going to make it! I’m going to break down! I’m going to have to push the car all the way to a nearby gas station! Visions of these terrible scenarios rushed through my head and I reasoned it wouldn’t be a huge deal to get into work a few minutes late if I filled up really quickly to prevent a possible break down. Besides, I want to relax and read on my lunch. So, following my gut—and, the terrifying lit gas symbol—I passed my work and headed for the next available gas station… which apparently doesn’t exist. Not on my side, at least. I must’ve passed about three on the opposite side of the street before deciding to just turn around, go to one of them, and head back to work.

So, that’s what I did.

Of course, the first one I pulled into had a rope around all the pumps. For real. It was out of commission and I’m pretty sure the ghost in my car did not appreciate the scream uttered when I drove around the useless lot and back out onto the street. Okay, another one was coming up just a ways. I still have time. It’s about three minutes until work has to start so I might only be a few minutes late tops. Not bad. But, as I drive into the 7-Elven, I find a line of cars waiting to gas-up.

Are. You. Shitting. Me.

I wait my turn and finally pull up to a pump. FINALLY. But as I punch all my information in and retrieve the nozzle…. uh…. Nothing comes out. As in, no gas. As in OH-MY-FUCKING-FUCK, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!

And that’s when I started crying.

I just need to go home and write, but instead, I have to go to work and type away doing something I’m—to be frank—not very good at just so I can like, continue to live in my tiny apartment. I know I’m sounding childish here, but it’s just not fair.

Being a writer is tough.

I can’t fill out an application and get my career going. I can’t go to school, take the required courses, get the required degree and boom, there’s the job waiting for me. It doesn’t work that way for us. Artists. There’s no guarantee. And that’s the worst thing. For other careers, there’s at least that end point. If I do this grad school/complete this internship/I’m able to get this job. I’m not saying it’s easy, but at least you have a manual, an end point of sorts. I get nothing is guaranteed in life, for anything or anybody, but, it’s really not guaranteed for us. I have no way of saying, if I keep at this, I’ll be there in six months, one year, five years. There is no obvious end point. If it even comes at all.

And that terrifies the SHIT out of me.

We all have dreams, so why do I only get to work on my craft for two hours a day? This is my passion. This is what I think about from the second I wake up, all day when I’m doing other things, and what I pray I remain passionate about tomorrow. So why can’t I do it all day long? Sometimes, like today, I just want to scream. It’s not FUCKING fair. But I know I’m whining and I have to, just like everyone else, suck it up, work hard and just do my best. It just gets tiresome after a while. And with this morning’s insane beginning, I wanted to give up, go home, cry it out with the bottle of Lindeman’s Batman picked out and just say fuck it.

I still went into work, got gas on my lunch break and made it through the day, thinking of course, of everything I could be doing if was able to stay at home and write. I spend my day job working for the right to work my night job so I can one day actually do what I want with my life. And I know it works this way for *tons* of people. I get that. I’ve gotten it for the past six years I’ve spent in a cubicle. Yeah. And even with all the wine I’ve been downing and Oreos I’ve been cramming into my mouth, it doesn’t get any easier.

It is TOUGH to be an artist. Maybe I should cut off a limb or something. Not an ear—it’s been done and I enjoy music too much—but perhaps a toe? Or maybe the skin on my elbow? Would that count? Would it fast track me into the hall of fame of artists so I can actually be a writer and not a (fill in day job here) for the rest of my life?


It was a hard day today, like it is every day. And I’m going back in tomorrow. One day though, I know I’m going to wake up and get to write all day long. I’m going to do what I’m meant to, what I honestly believe I was put here for- my purpose. If I focus on that, the hopelessness of each day won’t be so bad. I just have to focus on the end point. And believe it really exists.

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