Is Chasing My Dream a Waste of Time?

When I grow up, I want to be a writer.

As a kid, I loved books and stories. I knew that, one day, I was going to write books of my own. In fact, one year for my birthday, all I asked for was a pack of pencils and several notebooks to write in. I went to town, furiously scribbling stories and outlines for what I was convinced would be best-selling novels.

Ah, the delusions of youth.

Of course, none of my stories were any good, and most of them were so derivative of things I’d already read that they bordered on fan-fiction, if not copyright infringement.

But it didn’t matter. I enjoyed writing, even if I was bad at it.

I kept writing into my teens and early adulthood, usually in secret for fear that my friends would make fun of my aspirations of being a best-selling fiction author, or for fear that they’d give me shit for daring to dream. In fact, I rarely shared my aspirations with anyone, because, when I did, I usually heard things like, “That’s nice…but you’re going to get a real job, right?”

Or, “You know the odds of that happening are slim-to-none, right?”

Or, “That’s stupid. You’re wasting your time.”

Was I?

I didn’t think so…at least I didn’t at the time.

***

Often, I’d write when I should have been studying. I’d stay up late at night, sitting up in bed, listening to music through headphones, and typing away on my first laptop. This meant going to school or work on only a few hours’ sleep, but I didn’t care. It also meant spending time in class or at work plotting a story or developing character arcs.

Hey, I was already doing poorly in school (I couldn’t find a major I enjoyed or was good at) and working a job I loathed, so cooking up stories and characters seemed a better use of my time.

Besides, what did I need a biology, or business, or economics degree for? I was going to be a successful writer. I wasn’t sure how, or what exactly I needed to do to become one, but I had accepted it as a certainty.

I wrote my first feature-length screenplay when I was 21 — a comedy of errors based on one of the worst days of my life.

Looking back, it was an awful story, incorrectly formatted, and badly written. But I had fun writing it. And I was wholly convinced it would be picked up by a studio and made into a movie.

Oh, the cockeyed optimism of youth…or, in my case, complete and utter delirium.

***

In truth, I didn’t write anything remotely readable until I took my first creative writing class. By then, I was in my mid-twenties and in a wheelchair.

Luckily, writing is something you can do even if your legs don’t work.

It wasn’t until I learned the basic tenets of craft that my writing began to improve. This was the first real step toward achieving my dream.

I spent much of my free time working on a novel project, short stories, and another feature-length screenplay.

These turned out better than anything I’d written growing up, but they were still varying degrees of awful.

Some merely stank, while others were hazardous if you got them near an open flame.

By 2009, I’d completed the first draft of my first novel, and I’d been selected as one of the winners of a local script-writing contest. As one of the winners, I was commissioned to film my script.

I went through a casting process and crew selection. I borrowed or rented the equipment I needed. I was all set to begin shooting what I was convinced would be my first foray into a film career.

I had visions one day attending red carpet movie premieres of screenplays I’d written, of a big house, and a bigger bank account.

“Why yes, I’d love to sign the standard rich and famous contract. Got a pen?”

Head in the clouds much? Well, clouds…or up my own cavernous rear anatomy.

What I hadn’t planned on was needing to rely on other people.

Turns out, people are less reliable when they’re working for free. Don’t get me wrong, we all knew going into filming that we were making a no-budget film, that none of us were getting paid, and that the primary rewards were exposure and an acting, producing, or crew credit. Some people were on time, while others showed up late…or not at all.

It doesn’t matter how good your script is if you don’t have actors and a crew to help make your film.

Time ran out, and the deadline for me to turn in my finished film passed. I had to return the equipment, the cast and crew went on to other things, and I was left with a half-filmed script.

***

While it was an interesting and eye-opening experience, it taught me that, maybe film wasn’t what I wanted to pursue. And while it was frustrating to have put so much time and effort into something and have nothing concrete to show for it, I’m glad to have had the first-hand learning experience.

I abandoned writing scripts and focused on writing my novel series. Novel-writing is a solo-sport, one which gave me the control over my output that screenwriting couldn’t offer in terms of making a finished product.

Or so I thought.

I soon learned that, in order to get a novel published, I needed to first get several short stories published.

Why?

Apparently, having my short stories published would show a potential agent my ability and legitimacy as a writer, because someone else had vetted me first.

But wait…agents?

No, I couldn’t just submit my work to a publisher — I needed to go through an intermediary who would judge my work less on its literary merit and more on its potential ability to sell copies…and who would take 10% of whatever revenue I’d earn from said sales.

Suddenly, that clear, straight path to achieving my dreams began filling up with obstacles and gatekeepers.

***

The first short story I sent out got published by the first publication I’d sent it to.

I thought, “Well, that was easy. I’ll be a best-selling author in no time.”

Such a poor, deluded fool was I.

My initial success was followed by a cascade of failures. I kept writing, I kept submitting, and I kept getting rejections.

I took more fiction writing classes. I took other kinds of writing classes, such as poetry, journalism, and technical writing, in an attempt to be a more well-rounded writer with a deeper pool of ideas and techniques. I kept learning and honing my craft. I joined writers’ groups and attended writing conferences.

I kept getting rejected. I kept failing.

And I began to think, “Maybe I am wasting my time.”

My childhood visons of fame and fortune faded away, replaced by bleak and stark images of the harsh reality of writing — though anyone can do it, few people succeed at it. Fewer still achieve the heights I dreamt of.

I had come to terms with the fact that odds were, no matter how hard I worked, no matter what I did, I would never achieve the success I chased.

A sobering thought, one that cast a dim pall over my writing. I began to enjoy the process less. I began fixating on what I wasn’t doing right rather than the things I was doing well. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that it was ok to write stories no one else may ever read. I gave way to a deep, dark depression.

And I seriously considered giving up.

Stjepan Sejic, one of my favorite authors, once wrote, “A writer’s mind is a restless beast.”

I couldn’t quit. My mind wouldn’t let me. It tugged and pawed at me when I wasn’t writing. I felt guilty letting unfinished stories sit idle, collecting digital dust on my hard drive.

And if writing led to the depression I was wallowing in, it could sure as shit drag me out of it.

I began writing again with renewed fervor.

Only this time, I tempered my expectations. I redefined what success could look like. I mean, sure, the dreams of the New York Times Best-Seller list and book tours still lingered in the distant periphery, but I focused on setting smaller, achievable, intermediary goals — pit stops and mile-markers on my journey toward the loftier dreams I had.

Maybe it was my change in focus, or attitude, or expectations, or just my facing of reality, or something else, but I started succeeding again.

After a six-year drought, I got a story published.

Then another one.

Then a few more.

Nothing major, and certainly no one was backing up the metaphorical dump truck of money to my front door, but it didn’t matter.

My frightening need for external validation aside (a seemingly inescapable part of being a writer), people were reading my writing. By publishing my work, editors were saying it was good enough, that I was good enough.

More than that, I began to enjoy my own writing again.

If others like what I write, that’s just extra gravy on my biscuits.

I’m still chasing the dreams I had from my youth, but now, I know the steps to get there. Though I may never get there, I can still enjoy the journey for as long as it lasts.

Am I wasting my time?

No.

I’m going to keep writing.

I’m writing for me.

***

If you liked this story and/or my writing, sign up for my email list to stay up to date on new stories, upcoming features, and cool news. I can’t promise to fill your inbox with offers you can’t refuse, but I’ll do my best to send you things you’ll enjoy.

You can also follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Medium, and BitClout