Ah, it would be so easy, she told herself, to just quit fighting, to stop the whole insane process of trying, struggling, attempting to achieve her dream. No more late nights, early mornings. No more guilt. No more angst over rejections or writer’s block or the lack of forward momentum. Imagine, just imagine the peace of mind. The free time? She could take up a hobby, maybe even two. All those books stacked beside her bed? Could actually get read, finally. It would be so easy.
Except, it wouldn’t be easy. Because writing is like breathing to her. She has to do it or her world ceases to exist, loses all meaning. The rejections, the frustration, aren’t so bad. Certainly not as bad as a life not spent doing what she’s most passionate about.