The Story of a Struggling Writer
For the record, I’m maintaining a blog website for two years already. Excluding the other first two years I spent tweaking and developing the site into how it looks today, no one yet has probably ever thought how obscure it was to metamorphose a newly born website into something online readers would buy coming back to. I haven’t even reached the full of that privilege.
And speaking about writing or blogging here’s a pet peeve; it’s not easy trying to compete for loyal readers in a world of not only several but countless dot coms posting and promoting their own niches.
For fledglings like me, many try to write and write but doubting in the process if it is relevant to ever call ourselves a writer. I do.
Recently I have read an article about an interview with Steven Pressfield. He’s asked when one becomes a writer. When one gets published or gains a hundred thousand fans?
Steven Pressfield answered, “You are a writer when you tell yourself you are. No one else’s opinion matters. Screw them. You are when you say you are”.
To me this feels like limelight, a glint of hope that becoming a legit writer can happen. It’s maybe one thing experts know that most beginners don’t. Hopeful writers and bloggers or whatever we claim ourselves we are will only get the recognition we want if we first believe in ourselves.
I don’t even have a degree in writing. My profession doesn’t do much with scribbling words to influence people. But I take the heart to honing this gift I have to share with people all the wonders words can make.
I also have the passion to travel. To become a travel show host and put into words everything worth learning about my journeys. I’m yet far from it but I’m starting to give myself the kind of faith I deserve. God knows. Even Pressfield took seventeen years before receiving his first paycheck.
The joy I find in writing and speaking has been nothing short of perfect. Few days ago a reader checked my blog entry about Titanic: Mystery Solved To my visitor’s log, the reader is from Belfast Ireland, the place where Titanic was actually built. I’m thinking who knows maybe the reader is the grandest kin of Thomas Andrews.