“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” other writers would say. I always have mixed feelings when I hear this. One part of me is genuinely awed by their luck, by that rare sense of certainty over what one wants or is meant to do in life. The other part of me, however, can’t help but feel like a late bloomer. Why couldn’t that have happened to me? Why couldn’t I have known sooner that I wanted to write, too?
But I know that now. I know I want to be a writer. But I also realize now that I don’t actually want to be a writer.
What I mean is, despite realizing that writing is my thing, despite seeing the different ways you can now be a full-time writer whilst supporting the lifestyle you want (Should I be a freelancing, ghostwriting digital nomad? A self-employed writer with an online empire? A self-published Amazon author? Maybe do all three?)—I don’t feel the need to be a writer by profession. Not anymore. Or perhaps not now.
I have a few reasons for this. But there is one particular breakthrough I’d like to share for its broader implications on my life. Moreover, I love how the paradigm shift feels refreshingly antithetical to today’s narratives. (I’ll dive into this later on.)
This breakthrough was, amusingly, precipitated by a tweet. I can’t for the life of me find it anymore, but it goes something like this: “People become writers because it is one of the few professions where it’s normal to peak in your 50s.”
No truer words have been said, replied other writers. This tweet now lives rent-free in my head.
I used to be so worried that I was selling myself short by not fully pursuing the writing life. I could be writing books now if I really wanted to get published early. But over time, I’ve become increasingly convinced that I don’t have to make writing my main or only thing—because, as the tweet reassures, I have time.
It’s hard to say that without coming off as if I’m taking it for granted. Like “I don’t think I’m going to die tomorrow, so I’ll just put this on the back burner.” But that’s not it. Where I’m coming from is my confidence in this: I’m going to write for the rest of my life.
I’m going to write in whatever capacity the ebbs and flows of life will allow me. Maybe I’ll keep writing newsletters. Maybe I’ll try for a byline in bigger publications. Maybe I’ll simply retreat to my journal, sharing my ugliest, unfiltered thoughts. Or maybe I’ll express myself through short but sweet Instagram captions. Maybe I’ll write in some totally unexpected app like Strava, the way I used to after running to decompress from work. Maybe I’ll post less regularly so I can shift my energy toward one of the (many) books I’ve been wanting to write.
Regardless, I’m in this for the long haul. And what I have in the long haul is time.
Thankfully, Broadway star Philipa Soo recently had something to say about this. In a Playbill interview, she tells aspiring artists: “This is a long career, give yourself permission to be present and go slow. And fill your life with experiences—go see art, immerse yourself in culture, engage in your community, read, learn new things. All of these things will only feed your work.”
I don’t need an unforgiving writing practice. I just need to keep writing.
Moreover, I don’t need to write a book now, or as soon as possible, or before I’m 30 or whatever. But I’ll admit that it’s not easy to full shed this perception. When my friend Kaki Okumura, a brilliant writer and illustrator a couple of years my junior, told me she was getting published, one of my first internal responses was “Wow, she’s only in her only twenties, and she’s already living the dream.” If there was any vestige of jealousy there, I can assure you that it was not unhealthy. (And I very much definitely highly recommend 10/10 that you get her book Wa: The Art of Balance). When I caught that thought, I was actually more annoyed at myself because I knew how irrational it was.
I call it the Twenties Brain. This thinking—no doubt forged by those 30 under 30 lists and other modern-day devices that glorify youthful, quick success —that accomplishments are more exceptional and valuable when accomplished earlier rather than later in life.
For me, writing has been the ultimate antidote to all of this. I’m truly grateful for how it has forced me to see life for what it is: a long game.
The arc of our lives is long. I believe there is profound beauty to be found in slow-burn success, deep peace in thinking long-term. And it hardly matters when you start, only that you keep going.