When I was a child, every well-meaning adult with a nine-to-five soul and a dried-up imagination told me that being a writer wasn’t a “real job.”
“You’re just a little girl with big words,” they said. “Books don’t pay the bills.”
As if paying bills was the most thrilling thing a person could live for.
I never understood why grown-ups were so committed to shoving a fire extinguisher down the throat of a kid who just wanted to tell stories.
I kept wondering, why is it so threatening for a little girl to believe her words could matter?
Now I know why.
Because they never had a dream of their own.
And when you’ve never had one or gave yours up a long time ago, it’s easier to mock someone else’s.
It’s easier to roll your eyes at someone chasing stars when you’ve chosen to stay face-down in the dirt.
And still… I write. Not because I was told I couldn’t. But because I had to.
Because I promised that little girl I’d keep going, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.