I’ve never had a dream job. Either because I was one of those few lucky kids not haunted by the infamous what-do-you-want-to-be question, or – more likely – because I didn’t show any special talent during my childhood.
A hard-working student first, a thorough professional later, working out for fun, and reading before sleep. That’s it. That’s me. No extraordinary IQ score, no exceptional physical qualities, no remarkable passion to nurture.
For years I considered writing a hobby (personal journals anyone?). It was a nice spare-time activity which gave my thoughts an order and helped carrying me through messy times.
However, following an unexpected deep and enduring quarter-life crisis, I needed to shed light on what I really cared about and reconsider my priorities. After a honest self-analysis, it turned out that I was indeed good at something: words.
Writing was, is, and forever will (be) the sole activity that comes so natural to me. So natural it sparks my creativity. So natural I don’t feel the time fly when inking or typing. So natural I am never tired of it.
The decision was made: I’d have given it a try. But where do you start from when you have no idea whatsoever of what “writing for a living” means?