Here is the resulting blog post:
If you’re a creative writer like me who hopes to become a real-life, no-joke published author one day, you probably started writing recreationally at a young age. You wrote either for the escape, to live vicariously through a character for a time, for the fun of it, because somebody once said you were good at it, to express something that needed expressing, or finally because you couldn’t help yourself. Or all of the above.
And in the midst of your mad scribblings/typing, someone–a “well” meaning parent, guidance counselor, or relative–may have told you that you should really consider the odds that you will actually get published one day, and then maybe you should go paint your nails or experience sunlight or some such nonsense. Presumably, the intent of these people is to administer a healthy dose of reality. You know, to protect you from the pain of certain failure. Or maybe they’re all simply sadists who enjoy putting out the budding flames of ambition in the blind and impetuous young.
“Curse those youths and their dreamy dreams!” they mutter as they lumber away, dusting off their hands of a job well done. And while they’re off somewhere nursing the festering voids that once housed their own stupid dreams, you’re blinking like a kid who had been licking a popsicle and then, suddenly, wasn’t. Your stupid uncle swiped it out of your hands.
Yeah, my personal naysayer was my uncle, may his dreams rest in peace.
Here’s how I rallied: I thought about the odds a bit and then realized that there was only one way the odds would be absolutely and totally against me–if I never even tried. That was my first thought. My second thought was this: I don’t think I could stop writing my silly little stories even if I knew there was no chance in a frost-bitten hell that I’d get published.
When I’ve fleshed out a character and put them on a path, I have to plot out that path, and after that, I have to write out their journey, and if I don’t, I’m haunted. Those characters blur around me like ghosts, but without the creepiness. They remind me that their stories are incomplete, and if I don’t write said stories, I will begin to hate myself, more and more each day that I don’t write, until that hate dribbles over the top of my hate cup and starts attacking my surroundings, including anyone within a 10 foot radius of me.
That’s why this article about what it takes to get published made me feel all warmish inside. You should read it. And after you do, you should write some stuff.