Wealth is absolutely personal, and it’s up to you to define it. To me, wealth is time, freedom and creativity. It means being able to wake up whenever I want and enjoy a slow morning, to take a nap after lunch, to indulge in a long walk in the sunshine with Mr. Brinkley, to meet a friend for coffee, and to pack my red suitcase and take off for my next adventure without owing anybody an explanation or, God forbid, asking for permission.
(Travel) Writer’s Diary: The Joy Of Calling It Quits – The Journey From Work Slavery To Travel Writer’s Freedom
Many years ago, somebody asked me: “What would you like to do, if you could do anything in the world?” I answered: “I would travel and write.” And that’s what I’ve been doing all my life, in various ways. My wanderlust and restlessness have led me all around the globe, allowed me to experience wonderful adventures and meet amazing people. For a very long time, too long if you ask me, it was just a hobby, a big passion that I longed to follow full time but I lacked the courage and resilience to do so. Surrounded by those I trusted who convinced me to play it safe, I did.
Recently, there seems to be a very strange bug spreading among some of my friends. All of them are beautifully talented and fabulously creative. All of them once had a big dream, a wonderful vision. But somewhere along the way, when the road got bumpy and the journey seemed to be taking too long, when the first book didn’t become a New York Times bestseller, when the first attempt to get a client didn’t work out, when they first got rejected, when they immediately didn’t become millionaires, they decided to fill their life with excuses and quit. “It’s too hard. I’m not really talented. This is not meant to be. It’s frustrating. I can’t afford to.”
Recently, I have found myself in a very special space, that I personally called “accelerated expansion”. I have so many new ideas that I can’t write fast enough to put them down on paper. And I’ve been extremely sensitive to those things that don’t make me happy anymore. It feels like my body is cooperating with my soul, making it physically very difficult to do everything that may be called joyless.
It’s February, the famous month of love, pink teddy bears, heart-shaped chocolates and engagement rings dangerously hidden in desserts, waiting to be choked on. The month that reminds me how much I actually don’t need all this because my most magical flame is everlasting, super strong and very Italian: I have a secret, passionate love affair with my life.
Beating yourself up about what you did, didn’t do, could have done and shouldn’t have done, won’t take you anywhere and it surely doesn’t get those creative juices flowing. We writers are our own worst critics but we shouldn’t turn into our own biggest enemies. Your inner artist is fragile, needs tender love, encouragement and wise parenting.