My Day as a Fulltime Writer

If only I’d understood this twelve years ago, when I first embarked upon a novel. If only I’d understood this when I temporarily gave up writing in high school, embittered by novels that didn’t mean anything and work that didn’t speak to anyone. It lacked the spark, the adventure, the thrill I so remembered.

So, I left it all behind and went to college without knowing what I wanted to do. I majored in Camp and Outdoor Adventure Leadership, spent a summer running through high ropes, low ropes, and exploring caves…before graduating into a job at a distribution center. Now, I load trucks, a particularly mind-numbing task that affords me two or three days a week in which to squeeze writing.

Nevertheless, Mondays constitute one of those writing days, because I have Mondays off. Thus, Monday mornings have become my sacred hours; they’re the most protected segments of my week.

What happened when my roommates entertained house guests that planned to arrive Sunday and stay throughout the week?

I determined to keep those hours sacred. 

Monday morning, I decided to start writing at a Starbucks before relocating to a Barnes and Noble. This proved amusing, as I don’t drink coffee and Starbucks had denied café access because of COVID regulations. I wandered inside, selected a sausage and gouda cheese sandwich (I didn’t know what gouda cheese was), and a hot almond milk (what else do you pick when facing a menu of unfamiliar beverages?).

Because Barnes and Noble hadn’t opened, I drove to a bagel shop and determined to start my morning there. I started writing at 6am, commencing a stretch of trying hours composed of tantalizing smells from the kitchen and an itching wallet eager to comply. I found myself detailing a scene between ravenous undead and hapless protagonists certain to contain bloodshed, while the table beside me discussed proposals and wedding dates.

When I eventually relocated to Barnes and Noble, I stumbled upon the greatest dream of my life: writing while surrounded by fantasy books and a gentleman who resembled George R. R. Martin. Throughout the following hours, individuals continued through the café section, holding quiet conversation, browsing books, or working on laptops and tablets. I envisioned them as fellow writers, joining me in our mutual quest for discovery.

It was THESE hours that glowed, the final hours concluding six, uninterrupted hours of writing. Those hours, for as short a time as they were, constituted the most refreshing time of my entire week. A lunch of trail mix and protein bars, a morning spent tasting my harried breath through my mask and fogging my blue-light filter glasses until writing became squinting through a storm…this proved well worth the wait.

It proved well worth the twelve years of writing endeavors, the discouraging feedback and critique, the gathering dust when no one spared time to read, inspire, or strengthen my craft, because, if nothing else, I saw how much my own work had improved, I got sucked into my own story, and I rode my own adventure.



Here, surrounded by books and potential authors, titles of adventure and covers of beauty, I discovered the thrill of my OWN story. It didn’t happen overnight; it didn’t happen without offering my ideas to others and accepting their feedback. It didn’t happen through a closed hand, withholding my work for fear of failure or embarrassment. It came by humility, by interaction with other writers, by exposure to other works and ideas while understanding that we all ride this tide together. As writers, as artists, we comprise a universal struggle, urging people toward enriching mediums that impact the soul and stoke the imagination.

We comprise a universal story, detailing the seasons we all experience and recording them for future generations. We enter a legacy of creativity, birthed at Creation and culminating by eternity. One sentence at a time, we combat a darkening world, offering crafts of truth, hope, and love.

I might not ever see my name in the big leagues, I might not ever make money off writing, but for the first time, I’ve stumbled across my true calling, and I’ve found the fulfilled life.

It’s not about the destination, but the journey. It’s not about the recognition, but the passion.

So, as I continue through a season of 2-3 writing sessions a week, as I discuss dreams with a fellow co-worker, imagining myself as a writer and himself as a vintage toy salesman, I remember the true calling.

Yes, it’s sometimes difficult to start a writing session after days of tedium, when the words and plot scatter amid production quotas and damaged freight. Yes, it’s sometimes difficult to remember the keyboard glowing by sunrise, when the clouds burnt bright and fierce, as I spend the sunlit hours in dark trailers breathing dusty air.



Yes, I even relate to a friend saying they began “spicing” up their worktime conversations by composing haikus regarding their lunchbreaks.

However, I experience these moments and remember those writing sessions, reflecting on the stories I was given and the experiences I’m writing. Then, everything fades before the craft, the message written to connect with the eager reader.

And it all becomes worth it, because it’s not about the recognition, but the passion.

Readers, keep reading those stories that engage you.

Writers, keep writing those stories that enflame you.

Creatives, keep creating those mediums that impassion you.

Remember those moments, for the days are short and life is too precious to waste.