There isn't much gratification in being a writer. It's mostly hell, intermixed with a few good ideas, well phrased thoughts, and a desperate desire to create color from what is black and white. It's a futile craft that requires patience and self-discipline though it maintains no good explanation as to why anyone would ever invest their time so uselessly.
But somewhere, there is some reason to the madness.
There isn't much, honest, gratification in being a writer, but there is some. And I never thought I would achieve it.
I never thought that I would ever reach this kind of end; this place right
here.
Finished; something to
show for my hard work, long nights, and over active imagination.
This, what I've written, is more than just a story or a project; it's who I am--It's four or five years culmination all moving and progressing towards one next.
This
is the end of the beginning now and something I never thought I'd
make it to. It's surreal, it's unimaginable, but it's here; it's progress.
I don't know what to say or even how to use words to quite describe
what it feels like but it's been so long, and so many times I've
imagined what it might feel like. I never imagined, though, that I'd be sitting
alone in my freshman dorm room with Happiness by the Fray in the background
but, I suppose, I wouldn't have it any other way.
This is happiness; this small moment of
indiscernible euphoria and the overwhelming sense of hope. This is what being a writer is about. It's about these moments, not the attention or the accomplishment but those personal steps it took to get there.
