For the last few years, I had concocted a timeline for myself — I would begin my writing journey, and hope that within 3-5 years I might begin to make some kind of income. Whether it was getting enough traffic to run ads or start writing for other publications, I didn’t know. But that was my plan.
My dream was to eventually shift out of my current career and make a life from writing. I fully recognize the improbability of this — but more on that later.
I thought I was being mindful and realistic. I had done my research — blogging courses, top podcasts by acclaimed bloggers, learning from the people doing the work I so wished to do.
So I’ve been writing regularly. Much of it just snippets of thoughts, some more well-formed essays, and lots of reviews of hotels, restaurants, and regular schmegular travel content fare.
Nothing especially poignant or inspiring, but things that were interesting to me but general enough that it felt safe and inherently had a conclusion.
From the very beginning, I had a section on my website about Mental Wealth. There, I would publish my more reflective pieces — the kinds of essays about topics that rattle around my brain constantly. I am an ever-curious person, questioning everything and inspired by the world around me.
Several months ago, I realized that I’ve been hiding behind my hotel reviews and credit card suggestions. While I won’t stop writing such articles if there is something important I want to share, investing too much time in these was taking away from the stuff I really wanted to write about.
I wasn’t giving credence to the essays because I didn’t know their place in the world. My self-inflicted timeline, set to be profitable albeit several years out, was putting silent but meaningful pressure on myself to be palatable, informational, and ultimately, super blah.
I didn’t exist fully in this writing — there wasn’t room for me, and I was playing it safe by sticking to addresses, prices and maps.
Stemming from an unsteady childhood and an adulthood bred from required self-dependence, I’ve kept my head down and worked — and that diligence has now afforded me the ability to push forward despite dips in income, and ultimately the audacity to finally lean into my urge to write.
A few months ago, I experienced an embarrassingly obvious realization. I have been, for almost a decade, working as a photostylist. I love colors, textures, light, and working with apparel in ways that make them interesting.
What if, instead of trying to make writing support my life financially, I just quietly continued to write while pushing my paid work more in the direction of the parts I love?
This was a lightning rod of an idea. I think I may have literally stopped in my tracks when I came to this thought.
It felt as if an archer’s bow was suddenly unstrung, that perilous tension released, and I was freed to write without consequence or pressure for it to mean anything, be anything to anyone. Not even me.
In her book Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert writes: “I never wanted to burden my writing with the responsibility of paying for my life.”
Once I recognized that nudging my professional career in a direction that felt more aligned was possible, it opened up my future of writing in a way I hadn’t realized had been fenced in.
I’ve been searching for permission to create for creation’s sake — and I’ve found it. Rick Rubin, Julia Cameron, and Elizabeth Gilbert have all reassured me that the invisible pull I feel to return to writing should not be ignored, and most important of all, my writing doesn’t have to be anything.
I don’t need to share it if I don’t want to. It doesn’t have to change the world. It doesn’t have to be respected, or even liked.
But to engage with that pull, to nurture the act and massage the child-like creativity and courage to create — that is what makes life interesting.
It’s a constant challenge to push through my self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. But it’s a humbling reminder that no one is paying attention to me, and if airing my curiosity is what I feel like doing, then so be it. I’m not making anyone engage with it, and it’s wholly cathartic to me in ways I forgot about.
The ideas tumbling around in my brain need release to keep the flow of everything going, and it’s a regular practice to remind myself that they don’t require being cataclysmic or earth-shattering.
They can just be.