Winluck W. - How a Pterodactyl Became a Writer
Freelance Writer | Wordsmith
DID: 2004
I wanted to be a pterodactyl. Or a superhero. No, a space ranger.
Whenever adults asked child-me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d give an answer that was fantastical and, most importantly, impossible. Because that meant I didn’t have to think about whether my family could afford tuition for a real-life career.
Growing up, money was a constant stressor in our family. Every decision was an emotional exercise of: “If need be, what else can we do without for the rest of the month?”
Field trip permission slips went unsigned. Friends’ calls to go see a movie went unanswered. Not that my parents didn’t let me go. I just couldn’t bear the thought of adding to their daily struggle to provide for us. So I don’t even bring it up.
“Bit by bit, their readiness to sacrifice for the family became mine as well. The transfer was so natural, I didn’t notice it dictating my own life choices. ”
Community college over university. Multiple jobs over social life. At one point, I started my days at 5:00 AM in my first job, rushed to my 9-to-5 job, and then spent the rest of the evening helping my parents with their business.
I did that for seven years. Each passing year felt a little harder to get through than the previous one. By the seventh year, I was running on fumes. I had to quit one of my jobs because I couldn’t find the strength to wake up for the early morning shifts anymore.
The warning signs were there all along, but I chose to ignore them. I convinced myself that I could do more. That my family needed me to do more.
So what if our family debts had finally been paid off? So what if we finally had a house to call our own? The ever-present pit in my stomach told me it wasn’t enough. I should be setting aside more money. To fund my parents’ retirement. To fully pay off the house. To send my parents on vacation at least once a year.
Not once did I ask them if that’s what they wanted of me. I just silently assumed it all as my responsibility. And in doing so, I trapped myself. I felt like I could never leave my safe government job if I’m the one who has to take care of the whole family.
A year later, the inevitable happened. I finally broke down and fell into a deep depression.
It took a long time to dig myself out. The turning point was when my therapist pointedly asked me what I’d like to do if I didn’t have to worry about money.
That childhood question came back again to haunt adult-me. This time around, I thought seriously about the question.
I went back to the moments in my life when I felt happy and at peace with myself. I listed them all out.
And there it was. The pattern was so obvious: stories. Every moment listed revolved around stories.
From the times slightly concerned adults sat through explanations of my clearly laid-out pterodactyl career path, I liked stories. I liked telling them. I liked reading them. I eventually went on to write and even act in them.
But it had always been “just a hobby”. It was my attempt to reach escape velocity from a world that never seemed enough for the amount of gravity it held over me.
“When the therapist asked why I can’t just become a writer now, I laughed. She waited until my laughter faded and asked again. “Why can’t you?””
“Because...money,” I said, as if it were the only possible explanation for the existence of the universe. “I can’t make money from a hobby.”
“Lots of writers do.”
“Well, they had training and – ”
“Which you could get, too – ”
“That costs money that I can’t afford.” I sat back and stared at the ceiling tiles, willing them to hold their shape.
“I’m just wondering if you’re being too hard on yourself,” she said softly, when the tiles finally dissolved on me. “I’m sure there must be a lot of free resources out there on the internet that can get you started. Just see what you find.”
That night, I looked up all the ways writers can make money. Copywriting immediately caught my attention because of my business background. And there really was a treasure trove of free resources out there.
Blogs. E-books. Podcasts. Every question I could possibly think of to become a copywriter was asked by someone and answered at some point.
“My 9-to-5 job no longer seemed like a prison now that I had an escape plan. ”
I spent the next few months learning everything I could during my lunches and in the evenings.
All of a sudden, I began dreaming of a future for myself rather than for someone else. And that gave me the motivation I didn’t know I needed to set aside money to make that happen. At first, it was for courses. Then, my savings grew to become the emergency fund that would one day allow me to quit my job and become a full-time copywriter.
But even when I’d saved up enough for six months of expenses and then a year of expenses, I still didn’t make the move. Something else was holding me back.
This final obstacle was more than I could handle alone. So my girlfriend – now wife – made sure I wasn’t.
She was there for me when I told my parents I couldn’t help them with their business anymore. She was there for me when I told my parents I didn’t have any extra money to help with renovating the house.
Guilt is one of the most debilitating of emotions. The more I plotted my escape, the more I felt like I was abandoning my parents. The fact that it was true in a sense made it hurt even more.
Had it not been for my girlfriend though, I think I would’ve given up even when I was so close. Her faith in me was bright enough to light my way forward.
I gathered up my courage and told my parents what I wanted to do with my life. And that I needed to do this – away from them.
My mother said she’s happy that this would make me happy (a most motherly response). And my father...well, he said he hoped I knew what I was doing (as fatherly a response as one could get).
And that was it. I got all the permission I needed. Without further excuses, I quit my job. I packed up my life in a van and drove off into the horizon with the one who believed in me – and still does.
What do I want to be when I grow up?
“Someone who finally accepts that it’s okay to do what you love to do.”