I’ve seen the above-linked article posted on Facebook a few times, mostly with accompanying lamentations like “Thanks for the reality check” or “sigh.” I respectfully submit that the lamenters have misread the piece as satire when it is, in fact, a straightforward work of inspirational prose. Seriously, look at this stuff.
Because when you get right down to it, everyone has dreams, and you deserve the chance—hell, you owe it to yourself—to pursue those dreams when you only have enough energy to change out of your work clothes and make yourself a half-assed dinner before passing out.
And I’ll tell you this much: You don’t want to wake up in 10 years and think to yourself, “What if I had just gone after my dreams during those brief 30-minute lunch breaks when I was younger?” Because even if it doesn’t work out, don’t you owe it to yourself to look in the mirror and confidently say, “You know what, I gave it my best half-hearted shot”?
You think this is sarcastic? Does this sound wrong to you? 85% of the writing I’ve done in the past four years has been on the R7 between Trenton Transit Center and 30th Street Station. I haven’t sold any of it. I may never sell any of it. I have, more than once, “beg[u]n to question whether this was all a giant waste of time, whether you even want to [write] anymore, and whether this was just some sort of immature little fantasy you had as a kid and that maybe it’s finally time to grow the fuck up, let [writing] go, and join the real world because, let’s face it, not everyone gets to live out their dreams.”
But never for very long.
I live a charmed life, gentle readers, because I am privileged enough to carve any time for writing out of it. And I am not alone. Thank you, The Onion, for reminding me.