Microwaved vegetable chow mein from last night’s takeout, featuring the onions from my husband’s that he didn’t want.

—  
Back in 2015 I was working a dead-end retail job and was unhappy. I wanted to be a writer since I was nine years old and dabbled in self-publishing fiction for a few years while Kindle took off. Hubby said now’s the time to make a leap, he’ll catch us if I fall.

Well, I chose the (relatively) safe path. I didn’t jump into fiction, I started copywriting to try and make a living. Huge gamble, but it paid off. I was “writing for a living”. I didn’t love it, got burnt out a few times, but I had some regular clients and was earning nothing special, but enough to get by and then some and did it all on my own.

Then AI happened. And my regular client got bought out by a shitty company. And it all went up in flames.

Now, I’m a dental nurse (I needed a total 180) and it feels like where I started with retail: it feels dead-end and I don’t want to be here. This isn’t me. I’ve got another chance to write, but the stakes are higher: I have a bigger mortgage, less time on my hands, but I also have more life experience and a new book idea I few could be a real goer.

I’m just shit scared and running out of excuses. Old voices in my head are going “you don’t deserve to do something you love”, “you failed already at this”, “you’ll just chicken out again”, “you can’t handle juggling all this”.

It’s just a stupid fucking book. People tinker with novels on the side but I’ve made being a writer - any job, really - my whole identity.

I’ve started distracting myself: oh, I’ll go for my MSc! Then a PhD (in another area I love). I’ll wait til the mortgage is paid off - THEN I’ll write!

But the truth is I have plenty of time and room to write. It’s just when I do, the pressure I put on myself and the silence is suffocating. Ten years of self employment left me thinking hobbies have to be monetised, optimised. Shitty parenting taught me I’m only valued for what I do, not who I am. I’m 35 and still battling those voices and I feel so pathetic and spoilt with these first world problems.

My husband bounced around jobs and unemployment for like three years before finding somewhere he’s really happy. I’ve got to create a CAREER PLAN and a PATH and overthink every move to death: every job has to be THE ONE.

It’s just a job for a paycheck! It’s just a book for a hobby! Why the fuck do I overthink everything to the point of crisis?! 

I’m too scared to go for the career I want.