The Truth About Being A Writer

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“You’re a writer who works from home? That sounds so glamorous!”

It’s not, but I fucking love it. 

I don’t have a fancy office. 
My desk is in the corner of my living room and my kids treat it like a garbage sorting facility. It’s next to my toddler’s toy basket, which she stands on so she can steal every pen I own and usually draws all over her body with them. 
I don’t have meetings where I get decked out in designer duds. 
I don’t spend my days in power meetings with hot shot execs. 
I actually spend chunks of my day working in my parked, running car in my driveway while my toddler naps after school so she doesn’t do exorcist level shit. 
I use my own hotspot instead of WiFi at a fancy coffee shop, draining the life of my phone just trying to hustle as hard as I can. 
I’m too tired to attend even a fraction of the local events I get invited to. 
I have two kids 8+ years apart who have two different school drop-offs and pick-ups. 
I still have to make everyone dinner. 
I still pack lunches that don’t get eaten. 
I still have a house overflowing with laundry and cheese stick wrappers. 
I still have a husband who gets home from work, sees the look of defeat on my resting bitch face and steps in before I lose it.

Sometimes living your dream is completely unglamorous. It’s the opposite of a fairytale. It’s hard work. It’s persistence. It’s rejection. It’s chaos. It’s unpredictable. 

It’s worth it but sometimes feels impossible. It’s draining but fulfilling. It’s not quite what you expected but it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. 

That’s the real talk they should teach in college.

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