At times like these, I start to entertain thoughts of success. Partially because I'm not sure I'll ever experience it in any other capacity, so I'd like to indulge in any way I can. I think about going to a 10-year high school reunion, being a published author. Not that being a published author is the most impressive thing to become after high school, but it's my goal.

In these fantasies, I'm 25 lbs lighter and put together like I never could manage in high school. I'll be working on my second or even third book, preparing for the final launch in the series. People will comment on how they never imaged that I'd become an author, since all anyone really knew me for in high school was the fact that I was a musician. Back then, writing was more personal. I couldn't have begun to imagine sharing my scribblings, much less editing them and submitting them for review and possible publication.

I also think about actually being a published author, how it will feel. I think about getting that letter accepting my manuscript. Negotiating my contract, maybe getting a 3-book deal. I think about paying off all my debt with my advance, maybe buying a decent car. I think about making enough money to make a career out of this.

It's a vain, stupid fantasy, I know. But I think about it because right now I'm essentially I'm a failure of a person. I'm what people make fun of as they pat themselves on the back for their stability. I'm a cautionary tale, the picture of a deadbeat hipster, a drain on resources and oxygen. I've dropped out of college 3 times, I haven't finished a degree. I'm unemployed. Oh, but I'm a writer. Sure, some may scoff. Any schmuck with a laptop can plunk themselves down in Starbucks and proclaim they are a writer, toiling on their novel or screenplay while filling up on sugared coffee products and puffed up with pride at the picture they strike; the very picture of self-actualized, artsy fartsy verve, just oh-so-much smarter and perceptive than anyone else.

Saying you're a writer without having any credit to your name is almost a risk, an invitation for people to discount you and slap that label right on your brow. That's what they see- the poser in the second-hand sweater, preening in Starbucks. That's partly why I avoid writing in public. (Performance anxiety also plays a part). In most cases, it isn't even true. Sure, there are some people that want to be novelists because they think it's glamorous and easy. In my writing workshop, there are some younger students who all say they write because they want to be like J.K Rowling. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want that kind of success? But that's not why I write. I write because I love it, I love stories and good characters and fantastic plot. I love creating worlds and places I wouldn't go or see otherwise.

In the end, all I have is a desire to write and a compulsion to improve. And also an inclination to share- a long time in development.

And then I look back at my manuscript and wonder . . . is it even possible? So many people toil away for years without being published. I know that a lack of material success won't keep me from writing- nothing has yet. Not working in another major, not total depression and misery, not my own immense self-doubt. But still, you want to do something so well that it can support your household and family. I'm lucky enough that Fernando makes enough money to allow for me the time I need to study and write, but that might not always be the case.

I don't know how to wrap this up with a good conclusion. There isn't one right now, as far as I know. I'm still an unknown, working harder than I ever have, pushing myself. That's all the story will be for now. Who can know what will change?