“Will I ever write something that matters?” he wondered as he settled down in front of the keyboard.
A long sip of tea helped little to calm the anxiety over whether or not he was wasting his life that swirled and fluttered in his chest. He plugged in his headphones, and started the play-list he had made for working on this novel, letting mournful notes drip off of a distant cello into his ears.
The keyboard began to crackle under his fingers — the sound of the story marching forward one slow letter at a time — and the thought disappeared, the anxiety dissolved. Suddenly it didn’t matter if anyone liked what he wrote. He stopped worrying about if he would ever write something that would make a difference in a reader’s life. His worries about whether or not he could catalyze positive social change faded away. It became just him and his story. The rest of the world with their expectations ceased to exist.
He wrote these stories because he loved them and because he probably couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to.