Whenever I write a short story and send it off to a publication, or rattle off a dozen blog posts during the week for my freelance clients, I sit back and think about if the work I’m doing is worthwhile.
Do I enjoy my writing? Am I remaining true to myself? Is my work making a difference in the world, or am I just adding to the clutter that is the endless internet lists and cliched stories in the publishing industry?
Even when I know I’m on the right track, when I work on a book that pulls from my experiences and references stories I loved growing up, the dreaded plights of the real world come into play. I’ve been writing a science fiction novel over the past few months, approaching 80,000 words and loving every minute of it. The only problem is that I truly want to make a living as a writing. Well, I do already make a living with my freelance work and blogging, but I also crave a certain sense of recognition for worlds that I build out of nothing.