Earlier this year, I got angry.
Pissed off.
I realized that after fourteen years of being a writer—full-time, no less—I have still not started my career as an author. I have written almost a thousand articles, often for prestigious publications, I can put out an e-course with 60,000 or more words in it in less than a month, and yet, I can’t seem to finish a book.
Why?
I didn’t start out wanting to be a journalist. I almost fell into it by default. Not that I don’t love journalism, but I wanted—still want—to be a writer of books. I don’t care how they’re published. I care that I write them. And I often don’t. In fourteen years, I’ve written and published two books. Two.
I’m a prolific writer. I can write 3,000 words a day. Yet, every time I come to my novel, or the narrative nonfiction project, or even a book proposal, I feel a sense of anxiety welling up inside of me, this fear of putting my name on something so truly me, and having it be coldly rejected and tossed aside.
You know the anxiety. You’ve felt it.
You sit down to write 1,000 words on your novel, but your heart starts racing faster and so you quickly jot down a query letter or a blog post instead. And even though you wrote your 1,000 words for the day and it got published, read, and even appreciated, deep down you know, even if nobody else does, that you chickened out. That you robbed yourself of the real work you want to do—again.
I realized how tired I was of stealing from myself constantly, all the time.
I realized that day when I got so angry at myself that I almost couldn’t breathe, that it was time to change this.
So, I did what any reasonable person does when faced with an existential career crisis: I went shopping.
But I didn’t shop for shoes or clothes or even books. I bought myself the services of a coach.
There is never going to be a good time to write my novel. There hasn’t been, so far in 14+ years of writing professionally full-time so why do I believe that it will happen by itself in a few years unless I made it a priority?
So I made it a priority.
When you decide to change your life, truly change it, decide to do whatever it takes to commit to it—it’s in that moment and not some future one that your path changes.
I decided. I got angry. I put money into my belief that I could do this by hiring a coach and I reached out to him for help.
Slowly, steadily, I have been working. Sometimes happily, sometimes with anxiety, frustration and ample swearing, but I have been working. The book is getting written. I wrapped up the second draft yesterday and started the final draft today. There is, finally, after five years of working on this manuscript, an end in sight.
And it’s largely because I have someone to be accountable to, someone who’s stopping me from chasing squirrels and going down dark alleys, someone who’s willing to be in my corner and letting me know that he’s cheering me on to win.
Want to change your life? Get angry. Get motivated. Take your dream and run with it.
Because only you can.