Am I, am I really?

It seems recently I’ve come to an inevitable realization. I’ve always said that I would write for a living, and as long as I am writing then I don’t really care about anything else. But it’s becoming clearer that I should start seriously questioning my purpose in writing what I write, and if my passion will eventually produce quality.

My perfect future of living in a place with a roof-shaped ceiling, with just one queen-sized bed in the middle so everything is still within reach, carefully clattered with books, papers, pens and a laptop is getting bleaker by the day. Oh, who am I kidding, I guess I’ll just settle for living in it in my head.

In all seriousness, it should be a good thing that I’m writing more these days, the articles and updating this deserted blog. I just can’t shake the feeling that maybe this writing thing should really only be a hobby. I tell people that I love to write, that I want to be a writer, and they read my stuff, and they say it’s good, though in that moment I wonder if that’s true.

Am I good, because I say I love writing?