two years, 100 posts – just getting started.

This time last year, I was lost, confused, and endlessly driving home or numbing my bum on the train from Sydney to Queanbeyan. I called Sydney “home,” but I still called home home. I’ve never been particularly good at quitting jobs, especially when I still like the people I’d be leaving. I’d found it hard to just openly say, “I don’t want to do this anymore — I don’t have the passion for it.” Particularly when I adore the city I’m living in. But there was this small part of me that had had my little love affair with Sydney and wanted to come home (partly to not have to pay rent anymore), and really give writing a crack.

But what did I have the passion for?

I thought there was nothing for me. Writing was a hobby, and my blog was a bit of fun. I started using it as an outlet, for a course I was doing online (that I paid in full for and never finished, haha, whoops). It was having someone I had a past with tell me that, “I’ll get over it when I find a new man.” Because in his small mind, I only turned to writing because it hadn’t worked out with us.

I am yet to find someone again who is so up their own ass.

But I couldn’t make anything of myself as a writer. The dream of writing a book was just that: a dream.

I’d mentioned the fact that I wanted to go back to uni to a few people; and I’d only really gotten negative opinions in return.

“You couldn’t do it once, what makes you think you could do it again?”

“You might think that’s your passion now, but things change.”

“Can people really make a career out of being a creative writer?”

And now it’s meeting someone new and them asking what I do, and I suddenly have no shame in saying, “I’m a writer.”

Did I become a writer the moment I was able to see people actually, genuinely purchasing my words? Or was I a writer the moment I sat down to begin with (aka when it began – what a banger of a name). Was it when I was told that my writing made people cry? Or was it purely just the moment I felt like my heart had come home?

There are moments I’m feeling so completely out of myself because I feel like I don’t have a place in this world. I am crying more tears than I imagined my body could muster, and my chest is physically aching and I am constantly telling myself I am not good enough.

Or was it purely just the moment I felt like my heart had come home?

And then people ask for a second poetry book, a hard copy edition, congratulate me on my acceptance to New York for a short course; I have people tell me they are excited for the life I am going to lead.

Two years ago I couldn’t imagine I would be where I am. I couldn’t imagine I could make something of myself and I truly did not see my future further than the confines of trusty old Quangaz. Six months ago I couldn’t imagine myself getting out of bed the next day. Today I am so proud of myself, and I don’t know how socially acceptable that is to claim, but I’m doing it.

Thank you to you all for the past two years and reading my rambles; and here’s to so so many more years of my words making it to your hands and your hearts. I am far from done.

Ya gal’s just getting started.

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