We all want to make our mark; it’s imprinted in our genes to do so. But you don’t have to let bigbigbig run your life. Purpose is held within us, and its voice can only be heard when you’re still enough to listen.
I’m glad I failed National Novel Writing Month in my first year. Call it justification or denial, but I know better. Where some winners will shamefully shove their 50K in a drawer, never to be seen again, I’ve got a functional novel that I’m taking all the way to the end, wherever that may be.
The Wanderer bursts its chains from the sheer pressure of being held captive and explodes beneath the surface in hot waves of longing that crash over my head again and again, refusing to let me gasp a breath for fear that I’ll shove it back into its box – it has to escape.
“No, really! A katana-wielding bugbear. Bestseller!”
Masters of leaving hide their need for fear of being rejected because the leaving is underpinned by a deep craving for roots. We leave because we’re searching for the perfect place to thrive continuously, without someday needing to pack up and look elsewhere.