I was confident that I was a hard worker, and a good writer, and that I had things to say. I set a deadline for myself—as long as I published a book by the time I was 25, I would be happy. Then it was that I just had to sell the book by the time I was 25. Then I was 25 and bookless, and nothing bad happened to me. No pianos fell on my head, no witchy old ladies cursed me, I didn’t suddenly die in my sleep. Most important, nothing happened to my drive to write—there was no age limit on my imagination or creativity. This was a revelation.

Rookie » On Being a Late Bloomer

The indomitable Emma Straub

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