“So, what are you doing now that the winter season is over?”

“So, what is your plan?”

“So, are you still going to work at Kirkwood?”

These are the lyrics of the record that plays on repeat, the needle dropped by all my friends and family. All the people who are not writers, not creatives. All the people who care for me and are worried about me.

“I’ve committed to not taking on any full-time job unless it is related to writing or mental health. I am focusing on my passions, my new careers, my new businesses and committing 100% because otherwise, anything else I do takes time away from these projects,” I say like a script I’ve memorized for a play called, “The Freelancer,” on stage at a theatre called, “Imposter.”

These words are intentionally purged from my lips for two reasons: 1) If I say them enough they become fact rather than an idea, and 2) if I go back on what I say and edge towards a full-time job as an analyst, or for a ski resort, or anything else I have toyed with over the years in order to earn a steady paycheck and appease the societally flattened minds of those that love me, I hope that they call me out on my bullshit.

“How do you really feel, Natasha?” Asked no one, ever. Oh wait, except my business coach. Shoutout to Justine Mulliez of Just A Wild Thought Coaching.

Let’s pretend that you want to know, because I sure as hell need to tell you.

I feel the constant need to prove myself. Not only to every publication, website, or job I submit to for individual or long-term writing pieces, but also to those in my regional community, those in my household, and those (two people) who share my DNA. But also, what you might not know, is the constant need to prove myself to – myself. To show myself that these fatigue friendly, worry inducing, bank account purging, decisions, are worth it.

I also feel defeated most days. That’s why I shout to my housemates, “I edited five pages of my manuscript!” Or, “I applied to another job,” with exuberance. I must celebrate the small wins. Most days, they are the only wins I have. Oh wait, I also announce, “another rejection letter!” As a creative, where you are constantly trying to show other people that you can make something amazing for their business, your work is unique, and you deserve to be paid the rate that you pitch, you also have to celebrate the losses. Because they aren’t really losses. Each one is an attempt. A solid attempt that took time, energy, and likely you splattered your beating heart filled with hopes, dreams and ideas onto the page as if there was a topographic map tattooed on your largest muscle revealing the journey you hope to thru-hike towards, but you need this one publication to provide your next resupply. Will you show up for me? Am I worth your time?

Yet, each day, I sit down at the desk that I strategically slid into the back of my green Toyota Tacoma camper shell, creating a tetris game out of my belongings, a sparkle in my eye at the daydream of two months as a snowboard bum while joining a Toastmasters group and working on “other writing projects,” that I was turning into a reality. Five and a half years later, this desk is back under my punching fingers. It’s where I plant myself for four, six, eight hours a day. And, at the end of those days, zero dollars are made. Okay, maybe I had one article here,  and another there that amount to less than I’d spend on sustenance in a month, even when shopping at the almighty, and all-necessary, Grocery Outlet.

One day flies by, then another. To-do lists get completed, and some not, and yet, the sun goes down, and the laptop screen is pulled down to force me to walk away. Emails sent. Freelancer and writing groups attended over zoom. My favorite spreadsheet is updated with more “submitted” rows.

Do I feel any more accomplished? Any more confident? Do I feel like a professional writer? Do I hold onto hope that maybe tomorrow, tomorrow will be the day I get the promise of a paycheck. Do I physically feel the numbers of my bank account getting lower and lower like the water levels of The Lake? Would I rather just spend the day outdoors, carefree, exploring my backyard, getting in better shape, with the comfort that there will be more money added to the account soon?

Another day, another job application, another article submission, another “request to connect” that leads to nothing, 50 more refreshes of my inbox hoping for that one email, another check mark and another and another in silver marker over the mind map that is my daily to-do list. Another day, trying.

Why do I keep going? Why am I sitting here right now, before 8am, before others in the house have even gotten out of bed, before the sunlight hits my window, to write the inner workings of my heart and mind about a day in the life of a writer?

Why? Because I want it. Deep down, I know this is what I am meant to do. I picture the future book tour for my first memoir. I hear the birds chirping at my campsite, writing new pages for my second book. I can feel the pride when I tell friends and family I got a regular paying job with the title “writer” in it. I can taste the celebratory meals of sushi and ginger beer. I can smell the roasted beans and buttery treats in the coffee shop down the road, as I become a regular, known as “the writer” who frequents to take a break from her home office and connect with others, using the energy of the music, the employees, and the comings and goings, to fuel her work.

And as I take one more sip of the medium brown liquid, now a cold small puddle at the bottom of my mug,  I am sure it will all happen. I am sure of it. Another hour goes by, and just as my morning liquid inspiration to get out of bed slowly diminishes and turns cold, so career inspiration. Each time I hear the broken record of questions, I question myself, again. But, I will keep answering, with rehearsed confidence, and I’ll keep stomping one dirty boot in front of the other down this rocky trail, with a fully loaded pack of doubt on my back, because I crave these mountains. And this, this journey of a writer, it’s not the most challenging trail I’ve navigated. But it sure is heck is not the easiest.

Photographer: Daniel Deemer