The life of a struggling artist isn’t a fun one. You’re stuck in a job you can’t stand which eats up valuable time and energy so you can make enough money to pay for the necessities while fighting to make the time to do what it is you desperately love to do. It’s trying, it pushes you, and it is incredibly frustrating.

I’ve wanted to be a writer all my life. I love creating worlds, watching characters develop, and conjuring stories to entertain others while enlightening myself. Every narrative is personal, introspective, and special. I don’t do it for the money, though cash for something I enjoy would be nice. I write because it is something that completes me. It’s my form of expression.

For the past twenty years or so I’ve tried off and on to get published. Short stories here and there, poetry, the occassional novel. Nothing overly enriching has come from it. Little to no fame has been accomplished. But I do have my share of fans and what they tell me encourages me to keep trying, to keep pushing over and over through the doubt and the years in the proverbial desert hoping that I’ll get that big chance one day.

It is daunting when you see mediocre drivel achieve what you struggle to reach. You see how easily fame comes to some and wonder what it is that you’re doing wrong. I’ve come to see that giving in to that bitterness is distracting. You can’t glare enviously. You have to keep at what you’re doing. Believe in what you’re doing. If something comes of it, then it happens. If it doesn’t, then the world is missing out.

So I’m still plodding along silently, doing my best to reach that goal of being a moderately successful writer. What happens happens.

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