My dream was to write one book. A real, published book. For years, that was my vision of success.
It took a long apprenticeship, but it happened. I sold my first book at age 25. And then, almost immediately, it became clear in my mind that — you know what? — real success is writing a bestselling book. Before I could pin up the first newspaper clipping about my debut title, I started writing a proposal for my next one.
I wanted to be a millionaire. Did it. I wanted to buy my own home. Did that, too. Then, when I found my dream house, I remember thinking, “If I can just get this, I’ll have everything I want.” A year later, I was ripping out the floors and remodeling the whole thing because I craved something better.
Looking back, it’s hard to say whether the proper response to all this is pride or exhaustion.
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