I feel like I'm literally writing to save my life.
With how sick I've been lately, writing really is my best escape. For that amount of time, there is something to dream about, some other life to deal with, someone else to be. I don't have to worry about whether or not this will all turn out okay for me. All I have on my mind is revisions, notes, characters, ideas -- getting done with this WIP finally and taking myself somewhere.
And when I'm not working on the WIP, I'm working on other stuff that'll still aid me in my dream. Like review work, articles, short fiction -- stuff to get my name out there. To get me some publication credit.
But writing will always be, above all else, my escape. If my dream never comes true, or it isn't a super successful career - well, it'll suck, but it won't be the end of the world. Writing is still my passion, my medicine, my life support. I'll always write for me, even if no one else in the entire world gets to read a word of it.
So, now I slave over the WIP, which is in the middle of revisions at 38,000 words. I have a feeling that this book will be THE ONE. I just know, somewhere inside me. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm not. We'll see though, won't we?
Instead of talking about writing, I'm going to go do some.