Ambition Drought

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit

January 6
I will consider myself successful when…
“Finish this sentence: As a writer, I will consider myself successful when…

This very questions has crossed my mind so many times over the years.  When I was younger I used to think that I will be successful when I have a New York Time No. 1 bestseller. When you dream, you’re supposed to go big, right? No? Well, as time has gone on I’ve discovered how hard it is to just finish a novel.  When I say finish I mean a first draft, followed by edit after edits, and with some final spit and polish.  This thing should fucking gleam in the sunlight.  That way when the agent opens it to read my manuscript they’re immediately blinded and I become their only client.

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo a couple years.  Only the first though did I actually try and succeed.  I even spilled into December and finished it on the 6^th. I was so very proud of myself.  Now I’ve been pouring over it ever since.  I finished that one at the tail end of 2009.  Or maybe it was 2010… Regardless I have spent entirely too much time pondering the plot lines and if it’s good enough that I have written myself into a corner and fear taking a step out of it.  I imagine that has happened to so many before me.  I’m sure it’s what keeps others from even attempting at all. That’s just the nature of the beast and some artists are just not well equipped to handle the pressure that comes with trying to make a business out of their art.

At one time I thought success would be to get a book published.  Then I lowered that bar to getting and agent… And at some point I settled for just finishing my book.

The infuriating thing is that I know I can do it.  I can finish my book and submit it to agents.  There is no doubt in my mind.  I have the capability and drive to get me there.  It’s just my inner critic, my doubt, my fear, that keeps me stationary.

Once a polished manuscript sits in my hands, only then, will I consider myself successful. It means I have pushed through my worst obstacle, myself.

Up From the Murky Depths

It's difficult to become a writer. It's even worse to get past your own demons. I know I've written about this many times before but it is a problem that plagues me every single day. In the moments that I feel strong and the darkness has crept back into the murky hallows of my thoughts I feel invincible. I know that when I get home I will sit my butt down in my chair and I will write. My fingers will fly over the keys giving birth to my words. Yet it is in the moment that I sit down that the creatures of fear and insecurity smell the fresh creativity and they come slithering from their holes and consume everything in their sights until I am left hallow and can barely bring myself to even look at my manuscript. (They just might eat that too... you never know.)

Patton Oswalt has this bit about this movie he saw called "Death Bed" and his own journey of screen writing. It's a hilarious piece of writing and if you're easily offended I'd tread lightly with his other pieces but this one is pretty tame. It mainly is his imagined story of the guy that wrote and sold the idea for "Death Bed: the Bed that Eats People," and how the author had never any doubt in his mind that it was good. Or, as Patton so eloquently puts it, even worse had his moments of doubt and pushed through them to finish the script to the horrible film.

As I struggle through this I am amazed anything ever gets published. Truly. If I ever come into contact with someone who has truly taken the time to edit their work, sent it to an agent, and had it commercially published, I want to shake their hand where I will then inevitably fall to their feet, clutching onto their legs, while I cry. My main goal to hopefully absorb their supernatural powers. If that plan fails, then I would ask them what they did. I've read a few books. All of it is the same. "Ignore your inner critic." You've met critics, right? They're loud, obnoxious, opinionated, douches; and the only way to ever silence them is to hit them with a car. So, unless I want to write a book in the vein of "orange is the new black" that isn't the route I particularly want to take.

I feel like I need to be more specific. Where track on my creativity train seems to end is when it comes to editing ravine. The men that were supposed to build a bridge failed to complete it across the expanse and now whatever attempts are made causes the train to derail and plummet to the rocky terrain below. I can't be critical with my own work. I could when I was kid, for some reason, but as an adult I'm way more fragile than I ever was as a high school student. I remember sitting at my computer for hours after inputting my written notes into WordPad and then going through cutting, rearranging, rewording, each one of my chapters without shedding a tear. It was just something that had to get done. It was just part of the process. No one ever told me, I just knew. It's only after I read books and put all the pressure on myself that I I'm scared to even try.

I wish I could go back and talk to my childhood self. It never occurred to me, until just now, that no one (other than my school teachers I guess) how to edit. It was just something I did. It was a process I picked up entirely on my own and I would remain at my desk for hours doing it. Now when I pick up the story that I edited from that time it's really quite good. The tone, the structure, the pacing. Everything. The story captured my attention that even I, who knew where the story went, wanted to keep reading. I had forgotten so many of the little things I had done.

Musings of a 10 year plan

So, I’m flighty. I know it and am owning it. I flit from one thing to the next always hoping to find where it is I belong. I don’t understand why I couldn’t have done this when I was a teenager and not in my twenties but… life lesson learned, time wasted, moving on. My main goal will always be the same. No matter what new dream I concoct it will always remain “get published.” Even when I buckle down and then spaz out because I become increasingly overwhelmed I still maintain that hope of one day publishing one of my novels. That’s how I know it is what I want to do. Now, I may want it more so now than later but I am discovering the art itself has a mind and a clock of its own. And I may want it done at one point but it will inevitably be done when it’s done. And as embarrassing as all of my “breakdowns” have been they haven’t been for nothing. I have discovered/realized that a few pieces in my moments of madness weren’t working or were missing entirely that became abundantly clear.

My most recent meltdown has lead me to a hiatus until march, whereupon I will return to my manuscript with vigor and a fresh eye. I know I put too much pressure on myself and expect 100% perfection the first go around. And that’s not how writing works. It’s editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, and editing. Editing. And I’m a lazy son of a bitch. I don’t want to do that so I want it to be perfect from the word go which boils my brain and causes me to crash, hard. Thus I have to take long sabbaticals just to get my ducks in order. At this rate I’ll get my book done in 20 years. That just doesn’t work for me. As petty as it sounds (and a bit arrogant), I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I have plans with my writing career and I have other stories to tell.

Thus, I’ve started to develop a ten year plan in my head. I’ve never really done one before. Sure in my sophomore year of high school they asked me to do one but that one was just to turn in so I could get the credit. It wasn’t thought out at all. I basically just threw words at a page. Now I want to do a proper one. So beyond my ultimate goal, and a more realistic, solid (dare-I-say ‘achievable’) goal is to move to and live in London. It’s something I’ve always wanted and still want. My trip last year only solidified that desire even more. So, how do I get there? I need to work backwards. I do like to write. It’s relaxing, especially when I’m not doing it on company time trying to keep an ear out for my boss coming around the corner. (Is that an admission of guilt?) So what are ways to earn an actual income doing that? Journalism. Okay, how do you get into that? I did some quick research of job listings and most jobs require an applicant to either be in the process of getting a bachelors in journalism or a post graduate. Balls. I have next to no higher education. It’s that lazy thing again. So that leads me to the next lower step. Education. Thus, a ten year plan and not five.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in school. I’ve taken the odd class here and there at the local Junior College but nothing noteworthy. And one of my classes was, according to my teacher, beneath me, but she would shower me in compliments and had such a personality that I stayed in her class. But I never did any homework and failed it with a big fat F. As much fun as she was, I DO NOT want to re-take Basic English. Yes. I took Basic. English. It was during my “get back to basics” phase. I don’t know what the hell I was smoking. I was in a delirium is all I can say. But while I was taking this class I was also doing Creative Writing and got an A. So… go figure. One would assume one would cancel out the other but that’s not how it works, thus my dilemma. Luckily, there is a wonderful little loophole that if I switch to a different JC, and don’t transfer any prior credits, I can start with a clean slate. So that’s what I’m going to do, as a way to ditch the shortcomings of old Josh.

How I look at it, Journalism benefits me personally with my own personal goals, it also looks good on a resume that I have a college education, and it gets me into writing. I don’t really see a downside, other than I’m starting this as I’m pushing 30. God, I hate me. Always late to the party, aren’t you, Josh?

Reflection

So, here I stand poised on the precipice of a new year. Looking back at 2013 there was no particular milestone in my wishful career choices (aka writing, aka becoming an author) but the major things of note are: getting married to the man I’ve spent the last ten years of my life with; and going to a place I have dreamed of going to since I was a kid, London. Besides these major changes, my life was relatively stagnant for the majority of the year. These things didn’t even occur until November. So… At least I’m ending the year on a high note. Oh, and the other thing that was a major and wanted change was I finally broke my husband down, after years of discussion, to where he wants to adopt. Seriously… that’s big.

As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.

This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.

So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.

By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.

Prompt 12 of 31

I'm doing everything but writing, it would seem. Especially since I missed the last four days of writing my prompts because I was in Las Vegas carousing with my two best friends. Our evenings were spent gambling, drinking, and laughing. Only a third of the entire trip is a mindless blank. Either way it was such reckless abandon that kept me from my self assigned task. Now, back in the real world of obligations and schedules I am forced to pick up where I left off and I can do little if any at all. I'm worthless right now. I want to just sit and stare off into space but that will gain me nothing. Well, it would if I was letting my mind wander through a new story but I doubt that will happen. Only through working on a new prompt will my mind and writing be tested. So thus I give you number 11 of 31 (I will most certainly pull double duty soon to get my prescribed amount.)

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 110 "A train travels from Paris to Rome. there are several interesting characters staying in the sleeping cars. Write about what happens to each of them during the night: 1)an older married couple... 2) two young women who agree to share a room... 3) a football goalie who, earlier, that evening gave up the winning goal."

Start time: 9:07

The tiny serpent, Malk, with glowing red eyes slithered through the ducts of the train. It's small ears listened intently over the soft scratches of the budding spikes on his back against the metal of the tube. He was sent on a mission to find those deemed fit for departure to another place. Yet none were viable specimens. MOst had been asleep as he passed by their portion of the sleeping car. He thought of listening to their thoughts while they dreamt but that had always proven deadly in the past and would not root out a worthy candidate anyway.

"Ridiculous," he hissed quietly to himself. "Why couldn't he do it."

Finally he came to a compartment with an elderly couple readying for bed. The man helped his wife slip off her dress and shoes and into a silk nightgown with frilly sleeves. The wife did the same for her husband.

Malk rolled his eyes and curled up to watch. They had been the first to be awake and he wanted to make sure that they weren't the ones.

"What did you think of the Eiffel tower tonight, my love?" The man asked as he sat back with care.

His wife sighed happily.

"Even more exquisite as ever. I remember when you proposed to me," she looked at him wryly, "And how on the train ride home we made love."

The old man beamed his crooked smile.

"Would you like to do that again, my sweet?"

His wife gasped and looked about the compartment as if to see if others were about.

"I don't know if we should."

"I still can," he said.

Malk's stomach gave a lurch and bile rose up through his throat. He gulped it back down and slithered away as fast as he could. He knew they would have been a waste of his time, but he had to at least make certain. One time he had missed an opportunity when the husband had descended onto his nagging wife, choking the life out of her. Afterwards he had emerged from the compartment screaming that his wife had died in her sleep. He would have been perfect. Although the two never gave any such sign of animosity.

The next compartment was bursting with activity. He viewed it through the slats in the grate. On one said sat a blonde with her knees pulled up to hide her chest, with her arms wrapped around them. On the opposite side was a girl working intently on her cell phone, her thumbs flying madly over the glass screen.

"Are you sure there's nothing else?"

The girl glanced up from her phone for only a second. "Yes," she replied tersely.

The girl shifted in her seat and lowered her legs for a moment to throw them onto the bench of the compartment.

"This is ridiculous. Why can't you ride somewhere else? Certainly you could stay in the dining car. You seem like you would enjoy that."

The girl with the phone froze in place. Through Malk's eyes he saw the tension between them growing like a black orb, pulsing and swirling like a dark sun. His scaly skin tingled with anticipation.

"Yes," he whispered.

The two girls looked up at the vent.

'What was that," the girl with the phone said.

"Probably the air kicking on. It's insanely hot in here. You take up a lot of the cool air."

The girl with the phone gave her a sour look.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Yes it does! I'm saying you're a fat cow."

The girl with the phone dropped it to the seat. It bounced once before settling in the crack.

"You want to say that again? I could take your skinny ass."

The other girl rose and quickly discovered that the other girl may have been bulky but she had also had height to portion it out. The two exchanged glares until the compartment door slid open and a young man poked his head in. The short girl's mouth fell open and she froze.

"Hello, Michelle, my belle," the boy said. He took a step in, while he held onto the side of the entry.

"Bonjour, mon ami," the girl with the phone replied.

"I just wanted to see how you're doing. I so appreciate you finding another car to stay in. It's not every day I get to see my family. I didn't know they were all going to come to Rome for the concert."

"no a problem."

"Do you need anything?" the boy asked.

The girl smiled and shook her head. And with that the boy left.

The shorter girl spun around furiously and rushed toward Michelle, who quickly responded with a right hook across the girl's chin. She spun around and fell into the bench seat.

Malk shifted excitedly. He knew his moment was about to arrive.

BUt the shorter girl was not deterred she quickly rose to her feet and, keeping a safe distance, smiled excitedly at Michelle.

"You know Aaron Rose? You TRAVEL with the greatest singer of all time?"

Michelle looked taken aback. Her brow met above her pointed nose.

"Perhaps." Michelle looked unsure.

The shorter girl screamed and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger and bouncing her up and down.

Malk hissed angrily and slithered to another compartment. He hated teenage girls. They were always hot and cold. One minute they were the most vicious conniving creatures and the next joyful and friendly the next.

The next few compartments were the same, filled with sleeping riders. Frustration began to buzz behind his eyes and he wanted to bite the next person he saw. But he knew if he marked an unworthy human his master would be angry. He might even punish him with eternal agony. He could hear his master's word echo across his memory. "I'll send you back to the depths where I found you if you fail."

Malk was determined and picked up his speed. The next few compartments were duds. One even had a football player in it. But all that radiated from him was disappointment and failure. Strong emotions, sure, but they would not be worthwhile to Malk's mission so he kept on. Finally he reached the end of the car and had to travel through the vent at the end and carefully make his way to the next.

Once he was safely inside he found more compartments of the same, except for one. A man quietly rose from the bed with a sleeping woman. He dressed just as carefully and slipped out the door. Malk could tell something was amiss and followed him down the hall, peeking in through the vents to make sure he still had sight of him. He found him in the restroom. The man looked both ways down the hall before he stepped in and shut the door.

The man went to the mirror and examined himself with a smile. The pride and anticipation radiated from him in red hot waves. Malk was exuberant.

"What is your secret," he hissed quietly. The man, so enraptured with his own image, didn't seem to notice.

A knock sounded at the door and he rushed to open it. He stuck his head out first and then returned with a woman in his wake. She threw herself into his arms and the two began kissing passionately. He moved his hands up her body, simultaneously lifting her dress.

"Did your wife notice," the woman said in between kisses.

"No," the man said. He pressed her up against the wall and squatted before her, kissing her as he went.

Malk couldn't believe his luck. Betrayal. Lies. Pride. HIs master would be ecstatic at such a find. With that he closed his eyes and breathed out all of the air in his body, turning his being into a dried up husk. A black cloud of smoke moved through the spaces in the grate and traveled in a whisp across the small space. He lingered for a moment, letting the man get more of his indecent pleasure in before he was marked.

The man stood again and the two kissed.

Now he thought and he dove for their heads.

The smoke gathered about their heads and set their eyes burning. The two secret lovers hacked and coughed, separating for just a moment, allowing Malk to escape out the crack at the bottom of the door.

He quickly traveled to the end car of the train where his master sat amongst the luggage and other things. He was crumpled up weak in the corner. A blanket over his bony shoulders. His skin was tight against his skull and pale white. His purple eyes protruded from their sockets, staring emptily into space.

"Master," Malk hissed.

The shadow of a man moved only his eyes to the whisp of cloud moving through the car.

"Is it done," he said, with a hoarse voice.

"Yes," Malk hissed.

The ceatures master stood up slowly.

"Join me," he said.

Malk's Master made his way to the marked strangers with his hand against one thing or another, with the other clutching his shawl.

When he reached them he threw open the door and stepped inside.

The woman screamed and man got angry.

"Get the fuck out of here," he screamed shoving Malk's master against the door.

The feeble man began to chuckle and then plunged his hand, with it's sharp talons, into the man's chest and wrapped his fingers around the man's beating heart. The cheating man gasped as a dark matter coursed through Malk's Master's veins. The man turned to dust and fell to the floor. The woman screamed again as her blue eyes looked in terror at the man that had turned a deep hue of blood and sprouted tiny horns from his forhead.

"Your turn," he said and descended upon the woman.

Malk watched from the corner as a thin whisp of cloud praying to his Master that he would be rewarded.

Standing before the whisp of cloud was a fully formed monster, the likes the world hadn't seen for over centuries.

"Did I did well," Malk said.

The purple eyes of his master settled on him. He grinned, revealing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth.

"Yes," he said.

He opened his mouth and stuck out a forked tounge that tasted the air. In a tiny explosion Malk returned to his former serpent form over ten times the size. He landed on a toilet that crumbled beaneath him.

"Let's take the rest of them," his master said and stepped into the hall.

Fear and Dying Cats

Sometimes it's better not to rush. I am slowly, if not painfully so, discovering this. I have set many a goal to finally finish editing my novel but every time I come up short. Part of me thinks its fear, laziness, but another believes its my brain telling me something isn't quite finished. I know that sounds silly, like the people that wait for the muse to hit them. (Wait... This is exactly that... Whatever.) but through the process I have realized certain aspects I had been missing and thus have slowly begun to flesh out my story even more.

To a point it's finished. I've written it, there is a beginning, middle, and end but at the same time it's not submission ready. Technically that is up to my personal opinion. For all I know it is. It may have just needed some polishing and a great many cuts (I have the tendency of being wordy...) and have been ready for agents eyes. Sadly I am a perfectionist and won't settle for less. And yet my standards may be too high. I expect my manuscript to be at the caliber of the greats yet who ever said they were great when they were published? (Oh, publishing houses.) but setting such a high bar also sets me up for failure and the fear of failing. I have a nasty habit of letting that fear dictate my choices and actions. It keeps me from succeeding in the fear that it will be shit. ("We are our own worst critic."-everyone, ever)

There in lies my major problem: thinking it is worthless. In my mind I see my manuscript and having any self confidence in my writing, in the vein of the tone deaf people on American Idol. They swagger in and stand before the judges adamant that they are the next big thing. If only they could win on confidence alone. Then they open their mouths and the sounds of dying cats dragging their limp bodies across a chalk board emit from their chords. The judges cringe and America shifts nervously in their seats. When these people are told they don't have what it takes they are heart broken because obviously someone, or maybe themselves, have been told they have the voice of Mariah Carey. They believe it and when their "dream" comes crashing down around them it is devastation. That is my fear.

So I am left to decipher if it is the fear I have that weighs me down or that there is still more to discover within my story. Dear god, let it be the latter.

Tell me about yourself

It's amazing how sometimes a fictional character can take on a life of its own. For instance I have been busily editing my first novel and I have come to a point in the story where I seem to have shifted into a wrong gear. No matter where I begin this particular chapter or put on the page it sounds wrong. And I refuse to let myself get bothered by it so I tried another approach.

The iPhone is a handy little tool. Truly. I especially love the notepad app because there is no bells and whistles it is exactly what it says. It's a notepad. Now while I was waiting to be picked up outside Von's I began to have a conversation with one of my characters. I asked her what she had been up to. It was through this series of questioning that I discovered that my recount of her portion in my tale was completely wrong. She was in fact in some place entirely different at the time of the chapter I'm having difficulty recounting. So with a few tweaks in the previous chapters I am absolutely certain it will smooth out my ride and ill shift into the proper gear.

So now I am jazzed to start fresh tomorrow with the knowledge I have gathered. This line of questioning has also inspired me to do the same to my other characters but instead of trying to figure out "what happened" during the gap of time she was gone I instead will have them tell me about themselves.

I know this isn't that original of an idea. I was told to do this exercise in my acting classes and in various "how to" novel writing books. This will be the first time I've ever actually utilized this tool. Now I wish that I had in the past. It was because of this line of questioning that the character became more vivid in my thoughts. Granted she is based off of a real life person but in the context of the story and the events that transpire in it she has become her own self.

P.S.
I found this website to be amazingly helpful. It has a VERY thorough character questionnaire. I found myself pretending to be a journalist as I asked the questions.

Many Mini Revelations

So I've done it. I purchased the URL of my pen name and thus have begun a whole other journey. Sure, I'm putting the cart before the horse in some aspect but I wanted to have some blogs written by the time I start to query. The main idea being that if I have some examples of my writing online then they would be available if someone should google my name. I doubt it but you never know. The whole process has been interesting. I asked my partner/boyfriend/thing if it was odd that I made my own website and he thought I was rather ridiculous for doing it. I'm weird he told me. Which is true. I am a bit strange but there is a method to the madness. After many failed plans I have finally concluded that this must be my moment. I want to start out 2013 with a bang and focus on my writing. I have set a date of the 26th to be completed with my round of edits. Unlike in the past the process hasn't gotten me down. In an odd turn of events it's made me realize how capable I am of doing that which is expected of me. And even in some instances have walked away from my spout of editing feeling invigorated. Let's hope that continues this weekend.This weekend I intend to finish the main plot line of my novel. It has two that run parallel through the entire thing and tie everything up in a nice little bow. While reworking scenes and adding in/taking out characters I've developed a more coherent subplot that plays well into the main story. So, I figured it would be fair to dedicate time to each individual story instead of hopping back and forth as I have been. At two points in novel my characters had the same exact scene just hours later and in a different locations. The crux of my problem due to the fact that I had spent one week revising one chapter (to perfection, I may add) and the following on the following chapter which in fact has no real tie to the previous. (Who's on first?) The past couple weeks I have had this phrase recycling in my thoughts: You make sacrifices now to reap the benefits later. It's basically a reworded, reap what you sew or anything reaping adjacent. I never really understood that until recently. I guess some part of myself thought that the computer would just magically make the necessary revisions. Obviously that isn't going to happen so I'm rather glad that my brain has caught onto that fact. But i have to confess it is difficult when it feels like your inner critic and your partner/friend/thing seem to be best buds and grew up together. His words tend to feed this second sense of self and it keeps me down and wanting to hide away from my work.

Wake Me Up When September Starts

A new month is quickly approaching and is the end of the year and the end of my coincidental age/year correlation. I have been 26 for the vast majority of 2012. If you didn't gather 2 x 6 = 12. Anyway... I have this weird superstition with numbers. I tend to play these little games where I see if I can divide or mulitply something to equal 12. Most of the time it works, oddly enough. But I always see 12 as a sign of good fortune. For example when I was 13 I thought I had appendicitus. I went to the hospital and even spent a night there. But... the number I was handed in the ER was 12. I told my mom then and there that I was fine. Yet that didn't stop her worrying and spending a fortune for me to stay overnight and have nothing happen except the fact that I was poked and prodded for hours by amateurs that were insistent that I have an IV. Ugh... but I digress. My Birthday is november 4th. On that day I promised myself that i would have an agent. I intend to keep that or else I shall parish. This is the year that I make my career and life happen. I must. So with the approach of a new month, and my birthday drawing closer, I have decided to spend every day in the month of September working on one chapter of my book. I will devote the evening, after I get off work, to pouring over it and make certain that it is up to par. I know I can do it. I have found in the past, since the book I intend to finish-finish was done as such, that I work better under 30 day deadlines. I finished this novel during NaNoWrimo. I suppose it only seems fitting that I would finish it in a similar fashion. Instead of meeting a certain number of words per day I will instead work on chapters. Luckily my novel is only 33 chapters and tend to be rather short. So it isn't going to be overwhelming. I think that has been the crux of my problem. I just find the overall task of editing a novel length work of fiction daunting. I become frightened and scurry into the shadows avoiding it at all cost. I think it also doesn't help that I am turning a critical eye on to my art. But if I intend to make a career out of what i love to do (which is making up stories) then I must forge on.I have faith in myself. I know I can do this. I must do this. I will do this.