A few summers ago I was working from home full-time for the first time since I had moved to Montreal eight months before. It was enjoyed walking around Atwater Market at lunch and working from coffee shops in Little Burgundy in Montreal where I lived. The summer prior I had written my second novel (neither novels were any good) and the ten months after that I was plagued by the desire I had to keep writing and the longing I felt to become good at it. I wanted to be published and I wanted it badly.
I remember sighing to myself on day and thinking, I sure hope Providence has this in mind for me.
Then I stopped myself. This was something I wanted, didn’t I? Yes. So why would I not take it seriously and work at it?
I wish I could paint a picture of where I was and what I was doing when I decided that, but I can’t. I just remember that being a defining moment for me where I moved from letting life happen to me to deciding to living intentionally towards my dreams.
I know I haven’t done a perfect job of it the last two years, but I’m happy with making that progress from laissez-faire to conscious effort.
