If you’ve ever attempted to write a book as an adult and writing is not your paid profession, it’s likely you’ve experienced the silent skepticism of others or, even worse, the congenial smirk.
"Oh, that’s cute," they say in a tone reminiscent to a kindergarten teacher commending a student for saying they’re going to be an astronaut when they’re all grown up. They ask about the story and you’re torn between trying to explain an inexplicable plot or mumbling that you’re a better writer than Nicholas Sparks before scurrying away bitterly.
In many ways, writing - at least writing fiction - is juvenile. It’s a refusal to let go of one’s imagination. It’s the deliberate choice to spend one’s increasingly finite time building stories rather than kitchen cabinets or car motors, the refusal to stop playing make believe as one does on the playground, only now, it’s expressed on paper with words instead of being acted out with verbalized sound effects and poorly executed kung fu kicks on weather-worn blacktop.
Maybe it’s silly, but really, so is life. Might as well act accordingly.