A few days ago we moved to Budapest with my boyfriend. I left behind my job and studies, and for one full year, I have no obligations whatsoever. It’s like a lengthened holiday. Except for one thing.
Now I have a whole year ahead of me with nothing but time for writing. I know it would be a dream come true for countless aspiring writers (who would probably punch me for saying this), but instead of overflowing joy and excitement, what I’m really feeling is fear. That’s right. In fact, it scares the shit out of me, and you know why? Because I’ve run out of excuses.
Time’s always been the deciding factor in my lack of writing. You know the drill? “Oh, I could write a book, if I just didn’t have all this work/home work/house work and I didn’t have to meet with friends/see my boyfriend/insert your own excuse here…” or “I have this great idea, but to get it on paper, I would need time to sit down, and I’m always so busy…” None of that anymore. So now, with all this time in my hands, if I don’t manage to write a (good) book, it’s simply because I’m lazy/unimaginative/a bad writer/all of the above.
How do you think it would feel finding out, after years and years of dreaming of becoming a writer, that you really didn’t have it in you?
PS. Ok, I am a little excited as well.
