When Dreams Shift

I’m not a writer any more.

As a kid I always said I wanted to be an author when I grew up. And for years, that is how I’ve identified myself. A writer. An author. A book lover. Every thing I did was usually somehow linked to books and writing. It was every bit my passion, and I never thought that would fade. 

Until it did. Slowly, carefully, like a match biding it’s time. Until one morning I woke up and realized I hadn’t written a new word in months. 

And yet… I was okay. I didn’t feel anxious about it, or frustrated with myself, or sad. And something soft and somber seemed to whisper in my heart, “do you really want to write full time some day?”

After all, that was always the plan. To work a 9-5 job now and hold out for the day that I could stay at home and write books and sell them and grow a readership and a following and have book signings and host live events and read-alongs—

I’ve always wanted those things… haven’t I?

Don’t get me wrong—I still love writing. Sometimes I sit down and write a chapter of my fantasy book, or a random first few pages of a completely new story idea. Other times I love to sit down and write just like this—my feelings strewn into pretty words like the beads of a necklace, free to flutter and feel everything I’ve kept cooped up inside my mind for so long. Sometimes I prefer poetry or prose. 

But I don’t have that desire to write full time anymore. I don’t want writing to be the only thing I ever do. I want to be free to create in a million different ways, each one unique and liberating in its own, special way. 

So no, I’m not a writer anymore. I’m not looking forward to the day where I can quit my 9-5 and write full time. 

I am, however, a creative. Every bit of myself yearns to be expressed through creativity.

I want to mindlessly doodle with charcoal pencils or create new characters on the digital art program on my tablet. I want to blend acrylic paints into a sunset. I want to dig my fingers into potting soil and grow as many plants as I can fit in my sunroom. I want to bake and cook and learn more watercolor techniques and broaden what I offer for art commission. I want to create and sell more stickers. I want to write for fun—I want to write stories that may or may not  ever be read by another eye. I want to pour my soul out as poetry on a page. I want to be free.

Free from the anxiety and depression and constant feelings over overwhelming expectation that I’ll never live up to. I want to be free to be creative for the sake of living creatively, and nothing more. 

It’s been strange, realizing all of this. Realizing that the dreams I’ve had my whole life aren’t actually my dreams at all.

And this isn’t to say I won’t publish my books some day, or sell my art, or share my creative soul with the world. I’m just done putting the pressure on myself to have to do that.

I’m learning that creativity doesn’t have to turn into something commercial. We’re allowed to have hobbies that don’t make us money. We’re allowed to love something just for the fun of it.

I’m not a writer any more—not like I thought I was. I’m a creative in so many more ways than just writing. 

And I am so excited to see where these passions takes me.