First things first, I never actually knew I could write for a living, so why not start with that.
I grew up in a developing nation, pre-internet, so that meant you either went to university to get a job, or you sucked it up and applied for any vacancy you could that paid more than USD 300 per month.
What could I possibly learn from writing fiction? Aren’t I basically just making stuff up? What lessons even await me in the worlds of make-believe?
I had written for eight years before I decided to embark on my authorial journey, and I thought I knew everything when it came to this new pursuit, but boy, did I learn that I actually knew jack squat.
So these past few months have been an enlightening time, with Covid-19 sweeping in and changing the way the world works forever. It’s done so with such proficiency that it seems like our old way of living has gone out the window.
But I’m not complaining, because for me, things have actually turned out for the better.
Even after embarking on my third novel, after I’ve accepted that the first draft will always be shit, after living through the mantra that writing is rewriting, I still have days when I find the process just a tad frustrating.
What’s the meaning of life? That’s always been the question, hasn’t it?
Why am I here? Why is there so much pain and suffering? What’s the point of finding a job and going through life hating everything just so you could earn a bit of cash to fund your drinking habit (totally not me by the way)?
Fortunately, many others have asked that question before you. Unfortunately, not many have come to a satisfying conclusion.