The four of April of the year two thousand and fourteen, I desired to become a novelist, and with the introduction of my main character began a writing career.
Since that day I began working with discipline, hoping a mentor would appear when I’m ready. I had all the tools at my disposal, but I had never met or heard of a person able to write a novel.
I began writing in a family’s abandoned house, all the ideas the world sent my way. Every single day until exhaustion, once and again, hoping this journey was easy. After all, I brought all the tools I’ve gathered over a lifetime, but none of them adjusted to my new goal.
Frustrated, I continued writing even though life wasn’t going to let me out the hole. Therefore, with time against me, without money to continue the path. I was presented with the surprise of finding my luggage on the curb. I knew I had to continue writing, but the pain cutted like a knife; I fought to regain my family’s respect, but they only saw me as a dreamer wasting his life.
After all, the literature path left me empty. I lost my job, my savings, my friends, and family.
I couldn’t rent storage for my belongings left by the curb. But I wasn’t going to let them get in my path, I had to contied, day after day. And so I searched my contacts for a helping hand, even if it was just to spend the night; someone to help me continue writing, but I found nothing. All doors were just closed, I had to accept defeat. It was time to wake up from my dream, return to the place where all started, counting minutes until the weekend.
It turned out better than I expected.
When I was ready to leave it all behind, my phone rang. It was surprising to hear a familiar voice, without much of an explanation Daniel invited me to his house. It wasn’t far away, I just had to carry my bags up the hill. Climb more than I thought I ever would to reach home, to hide myself from society and get lost within shrubbery.
Years have gone and passed, the teachings I carry in my bones, and I still look forward at the day I can call myself a novelist.
Stories may well be lies, but they are good lies that say true things, and which can sometimes pay the rent.
― Neil Gaiman