I’m an author. I’m also a business owner.
You don’t get to be a good author without knowing business too. That’s just fact. I’ve owned one successful business in the past (2018 Currently). I’ve helped make others successful and I know business pretty well. But then… there is that place you reach. For months now I was feeling like it was a crossroads. Do I choose to dedicate my time to this path or that path. Do I write? Do I delegate? Do I keep it as a hobby?
I am a singularly focused person. See that goal over there? I want that. I’ll stop at nothing to get it (Slytherin and proud). My current goal?
To be the best author I can be, to have the best means of book distribution and to create and share as much lore as I can.
To provide us all with an escape that can show us that things can be better. We as a species can be better. We can be more caring and that we don’t have to be afraid anymore. We can love and come from a place of love. Because I believe together we can make the world a better place.
But I’m at a point. I was writing away in a basement, looking at the sunlight through the bars. I rose, still writing, and left that basement. I sat in the kind of middle basement area for many years thinking that because I wasn’t technically underground anymore that this was better. Then I saw it. I knew other people had seen it, even held it.
That ability to write for a living.
Sounds cushy to most, but to me, someone who knows a bit of business, I saw it as thrilling. I get to work my butt off to write and create? I get to dedicate my working hours to doing what I was put here to do? My very soul yearned for it.
So I did it.
Still have a safety net though. Don’t get me wrong. I still work fulltime. Now I have double fulltime work. Just like me to fill up my leisure time with work and projects…
Now my day to day is a mosh of working to help the place I earn money from and live from, as well as creating and shaping and guiding my purpose. I’m passionate about both, but writing… writing is what my soul demands I do. My blood is red ink, my hair, smooth lines of a page, my skin, the soft silken fine paper, my fingers the quills of my mind. I was born to write.
My little basement area that I enjoyed so uncomfortably became filled with stories. Filled with work. It burst out, pushing with me through the locked door into the first floor.
I saw it all.
I was in a glass tower. Everything around me is inspiration and although the first levels of the tower were opaque, I could still see infinitely more than I was able to in the basement.
Then the first floor filled up quicker than I could imagine but slower than I wanted.
Now I lay here, pressed against the ceiling to the next floor.
I can see it hazily and I know I want it. But I am afraid.
Breaking through this next ceiling will leave me cut and hurt as it shatters. Maybe not as much as I think. Maybe more.
But I know either way I won’t get through unscathed. I’m afraid.
I’m also hungry. I need to get to the next floor. I need to see how big it is. I need to see how much clearer the view is. Others have done it so I can to. I need it. Already the first floor is too small.
My dreams and ambitions are so much greater than this room.
I will break through.
My story is destined for it.