Jake, I want you to imagine a world where writing is a very uncool talent. Imagine that there’s very little money in it. Imagine that your parents will hate you for embracing it, that your friends will make fun of you, that no girl will be impressed by it. Imagine that you’ll never truly be fulfilled by anything that you write. Imagine a life stacked with frustrating days
and lonely nights. Imagine a life of unrelenting criticism. And then imagine that after you finish writing something you’re proud of, no one will read it, but that if someone does happen to read it, he will hate it. Now…if you learned that all those conditions were part of the world you were currently living in, would you still believe that you were capable of rising from bed in the morning with the desire to write?”
As he stared at me earnestly, I dutifully imagined living in the world he’d described, looked at him in the eyes, and then answered him truthfully, “Yes.