For most of my life, writing has been something that has just happened, that has always been there with me. From my first, one-syllable pieces when I could barely hold a pen, to fledgling short stories and poems in high school, to this blog post right now, putting words onto paper in a mostly logical and flowing manner has always been something I did for enjoyment, for myself. Today, that changed. I wrote my first article for GosuGamers.net.
It wasn’t delivering major, world-shattering news that needed to be put to the masses or society would collapse. It was just a little piece telling the lovely patrons to the site that an exciting tournament of DotA2 would soon be starting. Nevertheless, I felt an immense sense of pride and accomplishment when my current mentor from GosuGamers pressed the button, and my article, something that I had written, popped up on the front page of the site. I had contributed to something larger than myself.
This is the first step in a new direction that I am taking for myself. Next year, I hope to teach only part-time, and supplement my income through freelance writing or editing jobs. Having recently been told about Freelancer.com, a most intriguing platform that helps freelancers of all trades meet up with potential projects where their talent can be utilized, I am testing the waters to see whether this could be a viable option for me for the future. I am trying to net a few small jobs, build up my reputation on the site and my skills in the writing field at the same time.
While the GosuGamers article may not be the first time my work has been published online (with a short story I wrote forming part of a digital anthology called The Collective, available here), it does mark a step in the direction of more lucrative writing, and possibly even supporting myself by doing so. This causes me to stop and wonder: could I write for a living?
My heart says that I could. Hell, there are a host of people that put pen (or the digital equivalent) to paper (or the digital equivalent) and money happens to end up in their bank account because people like their work. My mind then reminds me of the much larger host of other people desperately flogging their creative wares to no avail or profit, and I feel more reserved and conflicted at the idea, but no less keen to walk the path, even if it is only for a little while.
So, I flex my fingers and carefully tread the next brick on the yellow road of writing. Will I walk long enough to reach the Emerald City of self-sufficiency and self-actualisation? Is that even where this road goes? I know not. But I am going to enjoy the view along the way.