Seven years
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Seven years.
That’s how long it takes me to complete my first book. Over those seven years, the advice I heard the most was “get a job.” What they really meant was “get a real job.”
But I knew what I wanted my career to be. I was working towards being an author. In the meantime, I washed cars for a car rental company, sold shoes at a discount store, sold Bingo tickets, cleaned buildings, brought food to patients lying in hospital beds. These jobs were just enough to pay the bills, feed my daughter, and take my girlfriend out once a month…sometimes.
Seven years.
After year two, I told my friends that I won’t be going out anymore so stop asking me. I needed to focus on becoming a writer, on building a readership, on learning how to make money doing what I loved to do. They understood.
I stayed away from spaces where they asked me about basketball. I wasn’t a basketball player anymore.
“I’m a writer.”
“I’m a writer.”
“No, I’m a writer.”
“Yes, a writer.”
I said it over and over again till I convinced myself it was true. I went to author readings and book launches, found my tribe and made new friends. It’s such a strange feeling to finally feel seen. It’s like this part of me was hidden for so long that I didn’t even know I was hiding it. This world where other writers existed and spoke about literature and books and told me they love my writing was like a silent resuscitation.
But I still struggled to catch my breath. Life was grabbing at my feet trying desperately to suck me back in. Compliments don’t pay the bills, and while I was searching to find myself, days and weeks and months and years added up.
So did my daughter’s needs. So did my girlfriend’s needs. Was I being selfish?
My ambitions required perseverance. My dreams required patience. My goals required focus and discipline. The money would come, I just couldn’t say when. At some point, that wasn’t good enough anymore.
When you ignore something long enough, they find attention somewhere else. My girlfriend’s patience fell thin. When would she matter? When would I deliver on my promises? Her faith in me was strong but so were the voices in her head.
“He’s basically broke.”
“You’ve wasted enough time.”
“You can find someone else.”
Our relationship fractured. I needed her to hold on a little bit longer but she wasn’t sure that she could. I couldn’t blame her. We let each other go.
Seven years.
My first novel finally comes out. I was finally making enough money as a writer not to do anything else. I was where I wanted to be, or at least close enough to feel validated. The question I always ask myself is “at what price?”
Read my novel Boys and Girls Screaming
My daughter was twelve at that point. What had I provided her? Had I been selfish? I put my dreams ahead of everything else partly so I could be a provider but mostly so I could feel fulfilled. I was present in her life every day, but couldn’t provide her with much more than the necessities until those seven years were over. On my bad days, the guilt of this still haunts me.
But I’m here now. I’m soaring to new heights that make me feel like this life isn’t even real. Everyone knows me as a writer. They laugh when I tell them I used to play basketball. I laugh when I tell them I suck now.
I chose this path.