The Anxiety of Selling Your Passion
Turning fun into fear…
Yes, that was a dramatic title. It is not hyperbole — not for me.
About a year ago, I left my secure day job to work from home. I didn’t have grandiose dreams of six-figure income or widespread fame. All I wanted to do was write my stories, develop my gaming projects, and take care of my household. The plan was to self-publish material for a project I’d already established and begun selling. Also, to take some freelance writing gigs to supplement that meager income. My wife was supportive of it all and had plans of her own.
Rather quickly — life happened. Funds ran short. Savings ran out. Anxiety and depression took a stranglehold on my mind. I stalled. Then, I fell into a downward spiral. Not a unique story.
I think the sense of failure started almost immediately. People wanted what I was creating. That was great, at first. But, my anxiety turned their interest into my obligation. I felt a need to deliver. A deep, driving need. I wanted to do ALL the things. After all, I now had so much more time. Didn’t matter that I was still just one guy trying to do it all. There were so many more hours of the day that were mine.
Mine. Ha!
Working for yourself means never being yourself. Okay, maybe not for everyone, but most certainly for me. I couldn’t write a single word or draw one line without considering how the audience would see it. I’ve been doing this all my life — drawing since age three and writing since age five. Taking them seriously. I’ll be fifty at the end of this year. It’s hard not to feel like I’ve wasted so much time. But not wasted so much as this past year. Breathtakingly wasted. I’m a pretty good writer. I’m even a passable artist. I don’t think I am so great at business. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not.
There are so many articles and editorials about how to freelance or run a small business. I’ve read a lot of them. Some have even helped. Not enough to keep me going as things are, but some. I’ll be going back to a day job ASAP. I need the security so I can get back to work on my own projects. There won’t be as much time for those projects, but I’m much more likely to use that time to its fullest. After all, I started this whole venture while working a day job. It only really fell apart when my passion became a crucial source of income. But, I can take this experience and build on it. Maybe I’ll try the self-employment thing again in a few years.
Among the many hard lessons I’ve learned was one that I didn’t expect: trust myself. Living with anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember makes it hard to trust myself. Actually, make that nigh-impossible. But, this past year has shown me that there is some value in what I’m doing — even if it isn’t enough to live on. I’ve had support from unexpected places. I’ve built a modest following. Of course, I might have to work to rebuild that following. To rekindle the passion in myself that brought me this far. Because, to be honest, I felt like a failure almost before I began. My supporters deserved the very best I could give. They shouldn’t have to wait. They should have input on my output. I was doing this for them, not myself — not anymore.
Passion had become obligation. There was still passion, but only for producing what others wanted. Second-guessing is for amateurs. Once my guessing started, it never seemed to stop. It’s hard to cover all the bases when you’re constantly creating new ones and shifting them around in the process. I felt like an Abbott & Costello skit that had been forced through a wood-chipper. Firthishondest base! And, as it often does, my desperate brain leapt to entirely new projects as a means of escape. Not one-or-two, but countless new projects. I could feel pieces of my mind bursting away like corn in a hot kettle.
At the end of it all, I looked back upon the smoldering ruin of 2019 and wept. The tears lasted for a long time. Real tears, not a metaphor of any kind. I admitted defeat. I got some help. I took my name back. For the past year, I’d been thinking of myself by my publishing name. I don’t think I was even a person during that time. Isolated and desperate. Alone in my home office, except for my cats. And cats are so very helpful when you’re trying to write, aren’t they?
So, painful lessons. Costly failures. Messy tears. Popcorn brain. Crippling self-doubt.
My stuff is good — generally. Not every idea is gold. Not every story is a winner. My appeal might be only for niche audiences. But, those niche audiences like what I’m doing, and they like it enough to pay for it. I’m going to do all I can to be worthy of their investment. Without losing myself along the way.
