I’ve been living between two worlds for as long as I can remember.
There was writing. And then there was everything else. Editing, social work, counselling, school, friendships, my relationship. At some point, writing took a step back while the rest became a priority.
But here’s a secret:
A writer who doesn’t write will always be miserable.
And I was.
Sometimes, my two worlds collided well. Like when I was a copywriter; my world made sense then. Sitting in the back of class, writing articles while my professors droned on about things that never really mattered once I got into the field.
But then school ended. The thing I’d worked so hard on happened: I became a licensed social worker, worked at the hospital, and seemed to have everything together.
I was miserable. Again.
Everyone around me seemed to be able to combine their two worlds. Social workers could be musicians, travel bloggers, flight attendants. Anything we wanted, really, as long as we were on time for our shift.
But I was dying inside. For some, getting a great job and finishing school in their field is the ultimate prize. Not for me.
I quit. Started counselling—best decision ever. Almost. And I started writing again.
This presented me with an entirely different problem. What happens when a client looks you up online? Will they be excited to know that their social worker and counsellor is a romance author? Or will they metaphorically spit in your face and run? I don’t have the answer to that yet. In fact, the owner at the clinic I work at put my book right in our waiting room. Four copies. I don’t know if that’s ethical or not. I’ll have to check.
I don’t think there will ever be a day that I’m not caught between my two worlds. In a perfect life, I’d stay at home and be an author forever. But that takes time. And skill. And a bunch of other shit I haven’t figured out yet.
Still, my first book is released. The Love That Remains. Fell in love with that title ten years ago, and it’s finally in print. Fuck yeah.