Climbing mountains is so easy. Not that people haven’t died doing it, but with a reasonable goal, plenty of water, some trail mix (with or without peanuts, but you must have chocolate chips), and a couple of cousins you can make it to the top.
There’s a clear goal, and it’s obvious once you get to the top – because you can go no farther.
When you’re a writer, how do you know when you’ve made it? Is it when you sell your first manuscript for a price that might actually help you pay bills and/or buy a car or residence? Is it when you get to quit your second job slinging hash? Is it when you quit your corporate world job that has been secondary to love of writing for years and admit that your true passion is in the power of the pen?
Is it when you’re recognized as a writer? Or do you recognize yourself?
Do you even have to make money at it before it can be your identity? Does someone else have to affirm this for you to be it?
Can I possibly ask any more questions without giving you any answers? Is it possible that these are questions that maybe most people don’t know – or haven’t taken the time to think up – answers to?
Really, though, I’m wondering exactly when C.S. Lewis and Charles Dickens and Joan Bauer and J.K. Rowling and all those people got to put the suffix of “,writer” (and no, that wasn’t a misplaced comma. Think about it.) after their names.
It seems a lot easier to climb a mountain. To have a clear idea of what you’re going to be, to lose ambiguity.
Maybe someone needs to redefine what “making it” means. Maybe it’s just doing what you love and loving what you do.