There’s this allure in writing that makes most people immediately go: “Aha! That’s what I’d love to be. An author.”
On millions of bucket lists around the First World, people proclaim it their life ambition to write a novel. They want to make megabuck$, to be the next J.K Rowling, Stephen King or whoever the most popular author of the week is. They really want to be known around the world. Reality sinks in like a cruiser to an iceberg: It involves effort. For the most part, you actually have to enjoy writing. You probably enjoyed reading the set texts back in high school. God forbid, you enjoyed creative writing time.
Reality sinks in, hard and fast. They still think they’d love to be a writer, but never get around to it. I know, I keep mentioning this month after month, but I still see heaps of people both online and in the Real World saying how much they want to write a novel. Key word: Want. Perhaps the key part is that they don’t actually love writing. Say you love crochet or building model aeroplanes or cosplaying as Link from Legend of Zelda with likeminded individuals. Do those instead!
So many people waste years of their life doing what they don’t love: watching seven hours straight of TV the moment they get home, going clubbing weekend after weekend without questioning why and whether they enjoy it. They just do. You say you don’t have time to do what you love, but you actually do.
What I’m trying to say, for the most part, is do what you love. Such a simple statement, yet most people never realise until they’re hitting retirement age, and by that time, most people just can’t be bothered. I don’t mean to sound preachy, and if you enjoy doing absolutely sh** all, then by all means, do sh** all. I did say do what you love.
Maybe I’ve been reading too many self-help books lately—damn you, overdue library book—but if you waste too much time procrastinating on the internet, watching that Family Guy marathon, or just sitting on your couch monotonously like a gnrwing-blerghBRAINS zombie, you are wasting away your life. Life is short: around eighty years in most developed countries, and you could be actively creating instead of mindlessly consuming. Most people just run around like headless chickens, because they don’t know what they love. In this blog post, I wrote about the exact same thing, but I still see the same stuff happening.
Goddamnit, do what you love, or just imagine this: You’re a bitter old man or woman, complaining about those lazy young’uns and berating people who actually have done something with their lives. Maybe you don’t need to imagine. You sit on you rocking chair, or crappy Ikea couch, and constantly tell your children and grandchildren how you could have done something with your life, you just didn’t get time, your job was time-consuming, you couldn’t afford it: excuses, excuses, excuses.
If you really want to do something, just f***ing do it. Sorry: Just do it. Unless you intend to trek across South America in a day, or create a phone that connects you to the dead, then it’s probably possible to complete. Just do what you love. Right now. Unless it’s illegal.
And, while we’re on the topic of love, I’ve included a link to a short story I wrote back in 2012. The online journal it was published in, The Daily Love, was taken down recently. Plus, the story, while incredibly clichéd (c’mon, I was nineteen), helps reiterate this crazy little thing called love.
Read the PDF here, or click on the By the way link on jessicamorrowwriter.wordpress.com/writing, though if you click on the second link, it’s more effort, and kinda pointless since you can just click on the first link here. Whatever. Each to their own.