I keep having these moments where I’m in the midst of talking to someone about writing and then it’ll hit me suddenly: I’m doing this now. I’m a writer now. After all this time, it’s really, really happening.
It’s easy to not believe it, to just walk through the day doing normal things or forgetting to do normal things—another day in which I forgot my peanut butter sandwich—and hours slip past and it seems less real then, it seems fantastical, like that dream I had this morning that was so vivid and bright and— Sorry, lost it, can’t remember a thing now.
Fact is, I’ve wanted this for so long I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want it. Certainly since junior high. Did I ever want to be anything else? Well, sure, when I was little I wanted to be a ballerina, but then I learned how to read and there went that.
I think this might be happening. To me.
A few more moments like these and I might just start to believe it.