One year ago today, I made a change.

My birthday came and went a few days before, as a feeling of hope overwhelmed my feelings of dejection. And the next time I went into work, on March 20^th, I started the wheels in motion of quitting my job.

Now, one year later, I don’t regret that decision… even though I have not, in the last year, become a writing millionaire (or a writing anything, technically).

But it did change my life in miraculous ways. I have written one book, and am about two-thirds finished with another—something that, prior to last year, I had never done despite talking about it since I was six. I have sent out query letters to actual agents… and been rejected, of course, but still—I had never gotten even that far before, despite all my talk. And I have grown, as a person and a creator, into someone who backs up her passion with action.

So how long will this experiment last? I couldn’t say. Right now, I’m writing like crazy, and that’s all I can ask for… at least, until I have to ask for money. Like, um, yesterday. But yay, denial!

I am lucky, I am privileged, I am passionate, I am a writer. That last part I can finally say out loud and proud, and mean it.

And if nothing else comes of this, if the next year brings no other change, I will always cherish that simple fact. I am a writer. I write. I have written. And I will continue to write.

And, as always, hope that the next year brings something more. 🙂