Eye Opening

I sat down at my computer today to write on my novel. It was about 7 PM, I was beyond full from the mountains of carbohydrates I had shoveled into my mouth all day, and the story was about as dry as a dead woman's vagina. I decided to shove off, go sit back down on the couch, and maybe play some World of Warcraft--because yes, that will further me as a writer.

I don't know why, even right now, I decided to stay on my computer. I did though; I decided to look up a self published millionaire, and see just what the fuck she did to get all those millions of dollar bills (her name is Amanda Hocking: I'm not a fan of her writing, but she's doing something right). Then for the next forty minutes I read her; then I read the guy she pointed me to; then I read a bunch of guys he pointed me to. All of them, everyone--even Hocking, who, from what I see writes closer to Meyers then Rowling--work harder than me. All of them spend more time with their work, more time marketing their work, more time fucking writing.

Amanda Hocking wrote a book in like six days. For anyone who doesn't write, that would be akin to graduating four years of college in about a year. It's insane, and yet she did it. At my current rate of writing, I'll probably be published around the age of fifty. I'm not sure that's going to cut it for me. I love my 'day job' right now, am actually missing it over the break--but the saying says true: doing what you love and loving what you do are very different things. I'm not doing what I love, and at this rate, I'll be close to getting my government sponsored retirement by the time I do.

In the past two weeks I've had two things click in me. One is about fitness, the lack of dedication I've shown. The other is writing, and the lack of dedication I've shown. To some, it's a ridiculous notion. I've written 2/3rds of the days I've been alive since I was twenty. Compared to people who truly put the work in, the Kings, the Martins, the Amanda F'n Hockings, I'm pathetic. The fitness thing clicked, literally, like a cog falling into place. I'm afraid, not quite terrified but close, that this isn't going to click. That tomorrow I'm going to wake up, start my timer, and then walk off--leaving the work for another day. If I do that, if I don't get serious, then what's the point?