As I approach the end of my Master’s Degree, I am reflecting back on the reason I started this crazy journey. Why did I, at the age of 30-something, decide I wanted to be a writer? And I know it was mostly because of the freelance gig I got with POPSUGAR. When I first started getting jobs from them in 2017, I felt seen for the first time ever. Someone other than myself was reading my words and hearing and caring about what I had to say about something. And darn it all, I felt really special.
Then days, where I became wanted by POPSUGAR, fell by the wayside and I stopped being paid to write. I told myself it was okay because now I had to focus on school and make sure I got good grades. I told myself that surely this would be the way to get noticed because I would be highly educated and have a great portfolio. Yet, I still couldn’t get any writing gigs. The metaphorical rejection pile in my head became quite high, quite quickly. I felt really down and out about it all and worried that I wasn’t cut out for writing. Then I found an opportunity, an unpaid opportunity, to write weekly for an online UK Magazine called Trill!. I took it without a second thought.
But here’s the thing: no one reads my articles. Well, at least none of my friends and family read my articles. And I don’t post this as a “woe is me” moment, it is just a statement of fact.
Part of my very last assignment for my MA is to think about why we chose this program, what we learned and where we failed. And the only thing I keep coming back to is, “Why am I still writing?” What is my motivation if I can’t get a job, I don’t get paid, and not even my best friend reads my articles? And just as I was really starting to feel down in the dumps, I saw it: three little faces staring at me as I walked down the stairs in a huff.
Three little faces that I have to remember are not so little anymore but still, watch my every move. It was here that I realized I have never been writing for myself, I have always done it for them. Because one day, my middle child will find the website that has all my articles and he will say, “How did mom ever find the time to write all these while raising us? She must be a superhuman.” Then another day, my littlest one will find all the half-written pieces on my Google Drive and wonder to his siblings, “Why did she never finish these? They are so beautiful.” And it is distinctly possible that my daughter will stumble upon the half novel I finished and beg me to finally finish it so she can find out what happens at the end.
I won’t ever be a famous writer. I won’t have a best seller and I won’t be the witty one found on Nerdist or the Onion. But I will always be their mom and one day they will know, I did all of this for them.
Featured Image via Unsplash | Jess Bailey