I'm reading Stephen King's 'On Writing' for the second time and the part I'm at now he's talking about his time teaching english and how he so easily could have given up on writing then, 30 years would have gone by and when people asked him what he did in his spare time he'd always say he was working on a novel, but really he'd just be messing around with them every once in awhile. I got so sad about this I started to cry, right at my desk in work, not blubbering tears, just silent ones, but tears nonetheless. Why did I give up so easily? I say it's because I needed a job, I needed to make money, but I shouldn't have let go so quickly. I used to like to tell myself that I was better off, that I probably wasn't a good writer anyway, but I think that was just a way out. I don't really believe that I'm no good, and I definitely believe that if I wrote everyday I'd get even better. Even now, I wonder if it's too late. I'm taking a writing class, but I've yet to get back to the way I was in high school, writing everyday, filling up marble notebooks. I was always the one to say the key to life was not settling and then I did just that. From now on though, it's got to be about not settling. I mean, the truth is, I'm not exactly rolling in the dough now, so what can it hurt to start following my dream (again)? I may never be Stephen King, but I can at least be happy with myself. Now I just need like 3 more hours in the day!