If It Were Easy Everyone Could Do It
If It Were Easy, Everyone Would Be Doing It
As a society, we pressure children literally as soon as they can talk to know what they want to be when they grow up.
As soon as they start school and begin learning about professions, they are told to aspire to one no matter how unrealistic. They are told to pick one and know, as if that is the end all be all.
I remember at one point I wanted to be a vet, because I grew up around so many animals. I remember I had a friend that also wanted to be a vet. We all had the stereotypical answers — fireman, police officer, doctor, nurse…
It wasn't until my dad gave me one of the biggest compliments he's ever given me, that I knew I wanted to be a writer.
I was seven years old when I started telling people I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.
I would like to thank my dad for that dream, because more than anything he showed me this was a possibility. He also suggested it as a potential career in the first place.
I remember precisely the day he did, too.
In my first grade classroom we were making some project with construction paper. I remember taking a piece of cerulean blue construction paper and cutting a square with my lime-green safety scissors (more like a rhombus). I remember taking sheets of printer paper next, and putting them behind the blue cover, then creating a blue square for the back. I stapled the top and had created my first ever book. It was no more than an inch tall and an inch long.
All day in my class, I didn't pay attention. Instead, I told the valiant story of Foxy the Fox. In ten small pages, I told his story on each page. My pencil sharpened, I inscribed tiny words telling of Foxy's adventures. He had fallen in love, had a family, and had to save his babies from getting killed in a cascading, rapid-fill river. I even made tiny drawings of a clearly defined fox — tail and all.
Yes.
I really wrote all of that.
In simple sentences of course.
I brought home the small novel to my dad and showed him when I got home. My parents already divorced, it was my week with my dad.
I remember he slowly flipped through every page, ensuring he didn't miss a single illustration or any word. He read the book out loud. When he had finished, I remember him looking down at me with (I kid you not) a tear in the corner of his eye. He told me that one day I was going to be a writer.
"How can a seven year old create such a complex story? You're spelling is almost nearly perfect too!"
He showed this book (and other installments I created over the years, adding to the saga) to anyone and everyone. I think it was the only time my dad ever openly expressed he was proud of me for anything, especially in front of me to others. He still has them all. In one of his keepsake boxes on his dresser, he has all of the different tiny colored stories.
He was convinced I was going to be a writer. He set me up on our old Window's 98, I saved countless little stories to floppys over the years (most of which I still have). Things like, "Escape to Catnip Forest", "When Capri-Suns Attack", and "Yennah — A Girl Who Didn't Die in Vain". (I still plan on doing something with the Capri-Suns.)
He told me I was going to be a famous writer, and from then on out whenever I was asked what I wanted to be I had one simple answer.
Somewhere along the way, I got lost.
In college, I double-majored in English and Education. I made the definite (and stupid) decision that there were going to be no jobs writing for me out of college, so I might as well have a back up. I might as well have a career while I'm trying to become the next J.K Rowling. I'm certified as a High School English Language Arts educator.
This is where I got really lost.
I pursued my first career out of school in higher education. Five years later I'm still there. The last couple of years, I recognized my fate without writing and scrambled to make it a priority. I write in blogs, I finished writing and am now editing my book, and I attend writing conferences whenever I can.
Over the past several months I have felt increasingly melancholy, as I feel like my dream of becoming a writer is fading. I've been grasping onto it. What was once a tight grip, has lessened as my strength has decreased over years of not practicing the thing that at my core, truly makes me happiest. I also recently when to a writing conference where essentially I was treated like my ideas didn't matter because I didn't have a large platform and I have no experience publishing anything.
In conclusion, last month I had my very first moment of mind-numbing defeat. Along with it, came a meltdown.
Maybe I wasn't ever meant to be a writer. Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I suck at writing. No one will read my stuff. Even if I did pitch my novel to an agent and she liked it, that doesn't mean I would be published because I definitely have no freaking platform to stand on.
All of these doubts began racing through my head
Looking at that ugly pity party now, I realize a lot of things about myself. That's all it was, a pity party. And I'm stronger than that.
I have spent my whole life being told I'm naturally good at something, but never REALLY putting the time and energy into making it something mastered. I knew that it wouldn't just come overnight, my success in writing wouldn't just happen. I expected that. But what I didn't expect was to be so incredibly tested. Maybe that's me being a whining baby.
I didn't expect this to be that hard, wah wah wah.
The truth of the matter is, we never really now how much something will test us until it's there in front of us and we are facing it head on. And that's true for anything that's actually worth it.
A couple of weeks ago, I called my grandma on the phone and told her everything that's been going on. I hadn't updated her at all in regards to the conference, and I knew that the more days that slipped by, the more she was wondering why I wasn't calling her. I finally called her, told her about the conference, told her I didn't pitch my novel to my agent, and explained that I wasn't strong enough right now to take the criticism.
I started crying. Hard.
Then she told me something that I will never forget. She told me she loved me, then very softly and sweetly she said, "Remember that if this were easy, everyone would be doing it. If this was the easiest way to make a living, and everyone would be successful in it, then everyone would be a writer."
I stopped crying. She was right!
She also went on to state, "You know that all of this trouble will make it worth it in the end, right? You know that. It wouldn't be worth it and you wouldn't feel fulfilled if there wasn't a challenge somewhere in there."
I laughed. Again, she was right!
I have passed my first test, but there are many more to come in this. There will be harder challenges, tougher crushing moments of defeat, deeper moments of doubt. If I quit now then it wasn't as worth it as I thought it was, because it was so easy to give up in the first place.
If you are a writer and you feel you are struggling… Know that I'm struggling too. Between my full-time job, my second part-time job, going back to school, and trying to be a loving partner, I still write. If it were easy, if this success came easy, every one would be doing it. And at that point, it no longer would be worth it.
I write because I love it. And no one can change that. Not an agent turning me down, not vapid authors who treat me like I'm not good enough to be in their presence… No one. Not a single person can take that away from me.
And no one can take that away from you.
And that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Thank you for your time, your support, and for being a part of my journey!
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Source: https://medium.com/@carmabarre/if-it-were-easy-everyone-would-be-doing-it-6945f67ffd70
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