Every day is my perfect day

I'm sick, laying on Mom's guestroom bed, watching Pachinko on my laptop, crying.

On my nightstand, two heavily highlighted books on world building for SciFi. Through tears I spot a Sarah J. Maas novel on my dresser making awkward acquaintance with A Gentleman in Moscow. In my tabs: draft of my book, Sanderson BYU Lecture, writing conference deets, Good Work by Paul Millerd (loving it), NYC writing classes, and an article by Min Jin Lee about making it as an author.

I sniffle as I think about all the years I confessed in the deep of night in my diary, all I wanted was to 'make art and be art'. Never having the guts.

Now, I have a cold and I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in a week. My sister works in the room next door, and I listen to her keyboard smash smash smash through the paper thin walls. I'm making no money, and I have no idea how or when I'll earn my next dollar. And yet the happy tears come.

Because I have the guts.

I am making art and I am art.

And this is my perfect day.