On a whim, I wrote a book. At the time, it was a futile attempt to make a living because I’d just quit a job I despised and thought for sure I’d be an instant success. (Because Oprah would discover me, of course).
Needless to say, things didn’t exactly turn out as planned…my book, Misunderstood~a memoir, wasn’t the big hit I’d imagined it would be and Oprah still doesn’t even know I exist.
So I found a real job and convinced myself I’d probably never earn a successful living as a writer. I continued writing, but only as a hobby – just something to do in my spare time when I’m bored.
But then something strange happened. I can’t explain it really, other than to say I felt like I might die if I wasn’t writing, like seriously writing. Suddenly, it wasn’t a desperate attempt to escape anything, but an empirical need to write in order to sustain myself, like breathing. So you could say, writing is my oxygen.