This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
This has to work. And, by this, I mean my dream of making it as a writer. And, by work, I mean writing books. I mean expanding my platform. I mean making some fucking money. Writers aren’t supposed to say that. “Monetize” is supposed to be a dirty word. “Business” should be even dirtier. We aren’t supposed to do this for the money, but the funny thing is we clearly don’t because we’re floundering. If I were solely in it for the checks, I would’ve retired this blog six months in. Probably sooner. I do this because it is like breathing. I do it because I love it. I do it because I don’t really know how not to do it. But, sometimes I scoff when people compliment me on my work or say I’m talented because I think, “Am I really? Because if I am, then why does this feel so fucking difficult?”
This has to work so that someday when you’re sitting in an interview about your book and they ask about your beginning, you will reference this particular moment as you sat on the couch reading about Lena Dunham, drinking a $6.99 bottle of wine, broke as shit and desperate as all hell.