My short story is done.
After working on it on and off these past couple of weeks –not blogging for a week, taking a few breaks from my heavy teaching workload to write on it, it’s finished.
There was plenty of time I’ve asked myself, “Is it worth it?” Is it worth it to spend my time on this?
And looking at the finished work, I knew the answer.
I used to think so much about the financial part when I was crafting the story. How did I become so superficial on this? How did I get so caught up with the rat race that I let it cloud the sole reason for doing this?
I’M DOING THIS BECAUSE I LOVE TO.
There should be no other reason for doing so. It’s not about the money. I write fiction because it’s what I love to do. It’s what keeps me sane. Keeps me from spiraling down a whirlpool of depression. And you better remember this Ksyu the next time you pick up a pen. It’s not how much you’ll get in your bank account. Or how this will add some serious progress to your shift to being a freelance writer. Or what other writers and readers think.
You write stories because you love to.
This is the reason you’re here. This is the music of your soul. The air you breathe. The force that beats the heart inside of you. That makes you cry. That makes you weep. That drowns you in an ocean of euphoria.
THE LOVE FOR WRITING.