Mandated quarantine has lead me down a path of complete submersion in creativity.

I fucking hate it.

I fucking hate being contained to my house and front and back yard.

I fucking hate the parts of my brain I wake up when I sit down at a page.
I write things outside of Twitter, I just don’t share them.

Ironically I took a job in numbers and complex mechanical design and installation, I’m good at it too, and it’s fucking peaceful.

But I keep going back to this time in my life when I submitted a short story
And it was rejected. Frankly it sucked snd deserved to be rejected.

I’m more than a little competent in my chosen profession, but upon reflection I sucked at it too when I started.

Writing would have been no different, it’s a skill that needs development, a muscle to be trained
I can see it in the evolution of my tweets. I can measure it in the response people have had to them.

Like everything I share on this account I didn’t start with a point to be made, but I guess I have one now.
Don’t let anyone convince you your first failure defines the vector of your passion.

Don’t give up. When I was rejected I was in no way mature enough to handle rejection.

I’m happy doing what I’m good at, but I wonder where I’d be doing what I love.
This thread brought to you by the poorly arranged gobbledygook section of my brain, but it’s looking like another sleepless night, so 🤷‍♂️
You can follow @roy_after.
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