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.
Embark on an extraordinary journey through the captivating world of the Wolflock Cases series, where mystery, magic, and mythology intertwine to create an unforgettable reading experience.