Long Days Coming

I'm "going back" to work. For a whole lot of reasons, it makes sense for me to do it right now. I recently met with a fairly successful published writer, who encouraged me not to think of the world in bipolar terms: it's not about writing versus selling out, but working a "day" job to fund your writing. Most novelists, even good ones, cannot make a living writing, or so he says. All of this makes sense to me, and my practical side accepts that this is the right thing to do, but there's a part of me that can't help feeling like I am selling out again, like I am giving up on myself somehow. There's a part of me that can't help feeling like the worst kind of failure - the kind that fails because they haven't the courage to do what it takes. I look at the people I know who have been successful doing what they love, and I wonder if my lack of success is a result of lack of talent, or lack of discipline, or lack of willingness to sacrifice.

I wish I was a simpler person. Meaning that I had one love, one goal, and less introspection. I think I would be a happier person, or at least, that I would feel less torn and tormented all the time.

Well. There's nothing for it but to cry my cry, dry my tears, grit my teeth and go forward.