Very impractical, I must say.

Yes. I did dream of becoming a writer. It wasn’t really an all consuming dream, one of those dreams I had simultaneously about my future life, alongside being a Broadway director, a scientist (chemist), an astrophysicist (I wanted to lead a space exploration team), movie director, computer programmer, chef, an English teacher, a priest, a stay at home dad.

Apparently, my career path wanted to compete with Barbie’s.

Dreaming of becoming a writer is all about dreaming of becoming a SUCCESSFUL WRITER. I don’t there ever was a kid who dreamed of staying indoors most of the time, facing the computer alone, belaboring a page over caffeine and nicotine. This isn’t exactly an aspirational lifestyle.

What dreaming of becoming a writer was like: long queues forming as they eagerly await to have their copies of your next bestseller signed, people recognizing you on the street, your work turning into a Hollywood blockbuster, martini in a bar with fellow poets and glitteratis.

I didn’t dream of: being thankful for my royalties doubling since the last check cleared (but it’s still not enough to pay for the bills), getting recognized in a book signing (not my own) and having fans of other writers wanting to have their photos taken with me, getting anonymous messages from the internet telling me that I wasted their time with the crap I wrote, getting anonymous messages from the internet telling me that my writing changed their lives for the better, getting anonymous messages from the internet telling me that I’m their favorite writer because i look so cute (I’m still trying to figure this one out, but I’m happy for all the well-meaning support).

It’s fun to dream of success. It’s hard to work for it.

It sucks to sit down, roll up your sleeves, and get to work on your writing.

But, my god, there is nothing more rewarding that having written a story that only YOU could have written.

Ask me anything.