Today, my zulily copywriting exercise was rejected. After the high of getting a small piece published a few months ago, this was admittedly a downer. I felt that if I could not even write to sell a product, was I really that much of a writer? Granted I was not bouncing with enthusiasm at the project, but it made me smile for a little while doing the exercise, thinking this is it. It felt a bit like cheating on my “real” life, and learning how to do what I really wanted. It was more challenging than what I expected. What exactly needs to be said to make the site and the clients happy? I felt a bit clueless, although I was finally learning. Let’s face it; I wanted the romanticism of being called a copywriter. At least it was somewhat closer to my long term goal.
Can I really accomplish my goals simply by writing every day, applying myself consistently, and not giving up where others might? Can I really find an opportunity in a sea of competition? And yet I cannot help believing my voice is worth something. That I really have something to offer the world. We all do, in some way. I wonder if I am just being stubborn, insisting that I am a writer when it seems only my friends, social media followers, and I believe it to be so. If I have to work so hard to be accepted as a good writer in the professional realm, is it really meant to be? I have two half-finished novels under my belt and neither seems to be ready for completion. I have a finished game script sitting on my computer, begging to be finalized and set out into the world, with a rough draft for another game waiting behind it.
So: can your passion be a “side” hobby? Can it ever really come to full fruition in this way? In these times it seems less risky, even though I’d love to dedicate myself to it full time and have the drive and perseverance to see it all the way through. At times I really wonder what my place is in this world. If that big mystery isn’t the point of it all.