I was embarrassed to admit I wanted to be a writer for a very long time. I was fearful of seeming unrealistic, for one, but putting my wish out into the universe also meant I could fail. I wasn't thrilled about that thought, either.
In recent years, though, I've realized I was only failing myself. How can you pursue a dream if you don't even acknowledge its existence? You won't. That's how. Or you might tell yourself you're pursuing it while knowing deep down that you're fooling yourself by doing a mere fraction of the necessary work.
Over the past two years, I've publicly declared my goal of becoming a writer. I've tried to make that known at every opportunity. And yesterday, at last, I had a piece published in an online literary magazine.
It's beginning to feel so real that I ran errands this morning wearing a shirt I got as a birthday gift, with "Writer" emblazoned across the chest. What should your shirt say?