2014 was the year that I finally discovered the courage to reach for my dreams after decades of imprisoning them with fears and excuses. I had lied to myself for too long that I was content when I wasn’t. I had lied too long to others when I said that I was a writer, and yet I had no stories to share.
I will remember 2014 as the year when I faced my fears. The year that I picked up my laptop and screamed into the wind like a madman. Everything had been gaining momentum before this, but 2014 is the year that I stepped out, got hurt, got back up, and kept swinging. I kept writing no matter how bad I thought it was, kept posting even if it felt like nobody was reading. And I didn’t stop. It has been depressing and terrifying, ecstatic and beautiful. It has been… Real.
I’ve made mistakes for all to see. I’ve had some wins too. And my writing has improved remarkably since I hurled myself pell-mell into it.
2014 is the year that I started to cut the crap and write. It’s the year that I got my first major criticisms and brooded over them. It’s the year that I met the first stranger who told me that my writing was awesome and that I might become their favorite author. It’s the year that I started a short story that has grown into a novel-in-progress; a work that has inspired and exhausted me as I have learned so very much through my trials and triumphs with it. It’s the year which saw a friend give me a shirt that said “Writing is my Superpower”.
This is the year I wrote my first novelette, a piece of writing and a story I am very proud of. Proud of its quality and content, and proud of what it represents: A finished work that shows that I can do this. And shows that I can do more… and better.
And I will.
It has been a year of late nights, epic music and lots of earl grey tea as I write.
It has been a great year.