Tonight in the video store my husband and I were debating over which movie to rent.

“Why don’t we get that movie that our friends recommended to us called Office Space,” I said.

“I don’t think you’d like it.” he replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, you wouldn’t understand it, you wouldn’t get the jokes. It has to do with office stuff.”

I just looked at him for a moment and then said with a grin, “I used to work in an office you know.”

He just looked at me for a moment, slightly dumbfounded and said, “I totally forgot. I don’t even think of you as an Office Girl at all. To me, you’re just the writer and you always have been. I forget that you were once in the 9-5 grind.”

“Thank you,” I said as I hugged him.

“For what?” he asked.

“For giving me the nicest compliment I’ve heard in a long time.”

For the first time in over a year, I read a book for the pure joy of reading.

It had nothing with how to sell articles, grammar, writing structure, book proposals, marketing, design, inspiration, creativity or writing.

In fact, it was a book about whaling and it was read in less than a day.

I used to read extensively for enjoyment but since my official launch as a writer I instead began to use books as study and work tools. I thought if they didn’t benefit me by helping me learn how to be a better writer, than I wouldn’t read it. My once varied book collection became a whose who of creative self-help books and reading became a chore rather than a joy.

It came to the point where I started to actually loathe reading altogether. The self-help books on writing had become repetitive and rather than inspiring me, they bored me. That’s when I picked up a copy of In the Heart of the Sea and read it straight through, without even stopping for lunch.

My brain enjoyed the break, of being taken someplace different than a writer’s life. I was relaxed after, content and I think there was even a smile on my face. I had enjoyed reading! It was such a big deal because it had been so long since I had read a piece of non-fiction that I forgot how much I enjoyed it. Something I’ll remind myself often by reading more and more of it.

I’ve always wanted to be a varied writer, with no special area of interest. However, if I just kept reading on how to be a writer, I don’t think my writing would ever really improve. Instead, it would work itself into a pattern and would fall into one category - a self-help writer.

I don’t want that to happen so I’m going to get back into reading. It’s not only essential for my career, but for my own, selfish enjoyment.

During my stint in Corporate America, I frequently took vacations. As soon as I came home from one I’d start planning another. Sometimes they were just quick weekend get aways and sometimes they were two-week holidays somewhere warm. It seemed like every couple of months I was going somewhere.

However, since I’ve been working on my own, I haven’t even taken an overnight trip. Everything’s been work and taking time away from it would leave me feeling guilty - as though I hadn’t earned the right to take a holiday.

But I realised that everyone needs a break, especially me. Sometimes I tend to discard all my work because I haven’t been paid or there’s no exact way to monitor what I’m doing. However I have put so much effort into this, racking my brain day and night, making sacrifices, learning about myself and my business, that I figured it’s time to take a break.

I planned a five-day getaway to San Francisco. It had warmth, sun, art, relaxing streets and good friends. I planned the days so we’d be doing some things and sometimes doing nothing at all. And I promised myself that if we weren’t doing anything more than taking an afternoon nap in the hotel that I’d enjoy it, guilt free. I had earned time off and I had to make the best of it.

I began to make hotel reservations and after I did something clicked in my head. I’m a travel writer! So I emailed the sales and market department of the hotel, told them who I was and requested a media package. Four days later, I had one.

When I received this package I felt giddy. For the first time I honestly felt like a travel writer. I read through the information and became completely excited. Then I became confused. I had told myself it wouldn’t be a work trip, but now it was looking like that wouldn’t be the case. If I were a travel writer, wouldn’t I have to write about the hotel while I’m there? Wouldn’t I have to pay extra attention to all the details and carry a pocketbook around to note everything I saw?

I also began to worry that if I didn’t do that, the hotel would find me out. They would say, “Aha! You’re not a travel writer! We’d like our media package back please!”

Up until the day of travel I was nervous about how to combine the work with pleasure, unsure if it could be done. Especially since I’m still learning how to balance.

But once I hit the San Francisco sun, there were no worries. I relaxed, I smiled, I giggled and most of all, I enjoyed myself.

We spent the first few days driving around different places, staying with family and friends. I was able to relax so much and rest my brain, I actually noticed more than usual. And more importantly, what I noticed actually stuck in my brain.

When we arrived at our hotel in San Francisco, I became nervous. Did I look like a travel writer? Did I talk like a travel writer? Because although I’ve been working on my travel portfolio and have been writing articles that I will soon send out, I have to be officially published as a travel writer. I began to fear they’d think I was lying and ask me to leave the hotel.

But they didn’t. I even was upgraded.

I continued to relax and enjoy my trip. The more I relaxed the more I noticed and the more I actually remembered. Instead of stressing out over every detail, I enjoyed it. It was the first time in a long time that I had private thoughts and didn’t worry about putting them in an article.

I had new experiences that refreshed my mind and reenergised my creativity. I got to be Alex for five days instead of Alex the writer and that felt really good.

When I returned home, I was excited to get back to work. Instead of planning for the next vacation, I eagerly began to write about the one I just had. Even though I hadn’t taken one single note, I remembered even the smallest details of the room, the food and the whole city. I especially remembered how I felt, and that’s probably the best memory of all.

This trip helped me to realise that I do need a break every now and then, just like everyone else. It also helped me to realise that travel writing is really what I want to do, and will be good at. I love to travel, I love to notice things, and I love to encourage others to take time out and visit some place new - even if it’s just encouraging myself.

The old saying is to do what you love to do and figure out how to get paid for it. I figure I’ve spent enough of my years travelling for free that it’s now time to make some money at it. And I really believe that I can do that now, because I’m at the stage where I can enjoy the work side and the personal side. And that’s the trick I had to learn and finally did.

It is raining like mad, the wind is howling through my flat and my feet haven’t been warm all day. But that doesn’t seem to matter because I’ve spent the morning working and just began to sink myself into SARK’s new book, Prosperity Pie.

I have to admit to being particularly giddy over page 194. Because on page 194, next to names and websites that I have long admired, is my little URL, sitting quietly there in the book.

A part of me feels like I need to start creating more right away to live up to having my url there, but another part of me can’t stop smiling at the discovery while trying to make the moment last forever.

It’s time to weed out my book collection, which has grown by leaps and bounds this past year. It’s time to choose which books I want to keep and which ones will be sold to the second-hand bookstore down the street. Most of the books I decided to sell were the ones that were so crucial and biblical to me last year when I began my journey from Corporate dropout to freelance writer - the ones on how to write.

When I first began to write for a living, I wasn’t sure of the steps I needed to take to be a writer, sell my work and make money. I believed there had to be a right way to write and a wrong way to write, the way it was in my corporate days, when there were certain times I showed up to work, certain times I took lunch, specific ways I could write reports, and specific ways I could took notes.

At first, I needed direction, badly. I was certain that I didn’t know the right way to go about “being a writer.” I was so insecure and needed reassurance and I believed that I would find support from the voices of experienced writers who wouldn’t just offer me advice, but tell me how to do it. And so, my trips to bookstores became less for pleasure and more for work. I became obsessed with biographies, how to’s and self help books on writing and dug endlessly around bookstore shelves for answers.

One of the first books I read on writing was Julia Cameron’s The Artist Way. In her book, she offered the advice of writing several pages about anything on large blank sheets of paper each morning. Her idea was planted into my brain as a surefire way to help me grow as a writer and so each morning I began to write my “morning pages.” I was a dedicated morning page writer for about two days until I failed at it because writing on three blank pages at 8am does not work for me. I once heard a famous writer declare that she broke for tea at 9am every morning and then so did I, until would realise that 3pm works better for me.

After hearing the success of first time author J.K. Rowling, I immediately researched how she wrote. I found that she wrote in several large blank books of which I bought a dozen and she also mentioned how she wrote almost every page of each of her novels in a café. Of course, I had to try this despite the fact I knew I wrote better in solitude. I was afraid my writing wouldn’t be as good as hers if I couldn’t hack the romance of writing in a cafe.

Any author who gave advice on writing, I would take it. I thought if they were able to write a book about it, they had to know how to do it, and the only way I too could be a writer was if I wrote just like them. So instead of trying to find my own voice, I listened to those of others which made me feel less like a writer and more of copycat. By trying to write as others did, I began to feel like a failure because none of their methods fit me.

I couldn’t write with glitter pens, I couldn’t write in bed, I couldn’t write in cafés and I couldn’t write three large pages about nothing every day.

After eight months of little writing and lots of frustration I threw my hands in the air and tossed all the books to the back of the closet and gave up on trying to fit some image that I felt I couldn’t be.

When I did that, a strange thing happened - I started to find my voice.

I wrote as I needed to - in front of a computer screen, in silence with a small idea planted in my mind. I would begin to type out my thoughts out and nurture them along until they grew into words that would become an article. Then I would submit the article to magazines and to my surprise, some of my articles were accepted for publication.

By simple writing as I needed to, doing what worked for me, and seeing results from doing that, I was able to stop feeling as though I was doing it all wrong but in fact, doing something right.

The more I worked, the more comfortable I became with how I worked. And slowly I realised that the simplest, easiest way to “officially” be a writer was just to write.

Despite the fact I had been brave enough last April to declare myself a writer and leave my corporate job to pursue writing full time, I had been so insecure in the beginning that I forgot to trust myself enough to know how to write. I looked outside of myself for the answers and the knowledge on how to write, when the truth is, I knew it all along.

The schedule I currently keep isn’t found in any book. I start around 8am and finish up around 4pm. I break for tea at 3 o’clock without fail, and I actually take weekends off. I scribble haphazardly in fifteen million different notebooks - some blank, some with lines, some cheap, and some coloured marvelously. I don’t do morning pages and I stay out of cafés except for late night dates with my husband.

That’s what works for me and I no longer question if that’s how a real writer would do it because I’m a real writer, and that is how I do it.

So now, the books that were so vital to me in the beginning will be finding a new home this weekend. They weren’t all bad because they sprouted a few ideas that I’ve incorporated into my writing routine. This was the best way for me to use those books, instead of as gospel. Because the answers I seek, the reassurance I need, and bravery I crave will never be completely found in someone else’s book. Only mine.

I did it again; I waited until the last moment.

There was an article deadline for March 15th and although I had begun the article a couple of weeks ago, I really only worked on it yesterday. I was really proud of myself on how hard I actually worked on the article - the editing, the rewriting, making it truthful, making it flow. But after a full day of working on the article, something was still missing and I had run out of steam to figure out what it was.

I decided to just let it sit on the computer and come back to it later on. But later on I ended up having class and then came home more tired than before. Needless to say, I didn’t work on the article.

The next day, I woke up and almost immediately began to work on the article again. I had both the fear of missing the deadline (since it had to be post marked today) and the anger that I had waited until the last minute. With all this tension going on in my brain, I wasn’t writing well. The writing was jumpy, scattered, and hostile. My emotions were of course coming across the page, and I had to figure out how to change my attitude.

I felt that I couldn’t change the fact that today was March 15th and my article was due. All I could do was to know better next time. I got over myself and finished the article, satisfied with both what I’d written and myself.

The next task was to get it to the post office. It was so windy the rain was coming down sideways, it was definitely mitten weather, the post office was over two miles away and I didn’t have a car. As the wind howled through my flat, I debated whether or not I should attempt going out into such nastiness.

Then I asked myself how much the article meant to me.

A lot, I decided. I had worked hard on it, I liked it, and I thought it had a good chance of getting published. Was I going to let some weather keep me from following through? No, I decided, that’s one of the stupidest reasons to fail yet.

I bundled up into a million layers and headed to the post office. At the counter I handed my envelope to the clerk and asked her if it would be post marked today.

“Yes,” she said, “you just made it.”

Yes I did, I thought, smiling.

I’m still learning my boundaries.

Because I work at home, most people still tend to assume that equals bunches of free time for me.

When I left my morning docent class for my evening one, everyone assumed it was because of a bus conflict. The truth is, I write better during the day and having to go to a day class was like me missing part of my work.

Others assume that I don’t have distractions working from home - no co-workers to pester me, no children to worry about. The truth is I have a lot of distractions such as being able to see the messy flat all the time, having people call me during the day to “chat” since I’m “free.” And if I’m not careful, doing dishes will seem far more important than writing an article.

Since I create my own schedule, people think that I can work 24hours a day and I admit to being guilty of this sometimes too. Currently, instead of just writing, I am running several high profile websites, doing PR work for some of them, planning my high school reunion, planning two major trips while maintaining the household expenses, bills & grocery list.

That’s a lot. And I’m not even an overachiever or a workaholic.

I think part of it is just what people perceive me to be doing and how much I buy into it. Although I know I’m busy with writing, I tend to think that because I control my own time, I can be more than flexible with my hours instead of just saying, “No, actually, I have work to do.”

I’m getting better, slowly. Monday through Friday I work during the day and save chores, errands and catching up for after dinner or the weekends. I’ve designated Friday’s to marketing days and Monday’s to catching up with email days.

I see now why people have assistants.

Now that I’m not taking myself so seriously and trying so hard to be the perfect image of a writer, I’m having a lot more fun and my brain is loosening up quite nicely.

I’m getting back in touch with the messy bits, the disheveled bits, the awkward, scary, basic, real bits.

When I was around 16 or so, my mum was fed up with the state of my room.

It was a space literally in the attic, with sloping ceilings and a little window that barely opened on one end. There were household storage items sharing my bedroom space, I used to fall asleep to the hum of the freezer.

But in this space I had blankets all over, all of different colours. I had pictures hanging here and there, tables filled with art supplies and oddities. Clothes strung from the ceiling on pieces of string and forts built in some corners. There were things everywhere - and I knew where everything was. I loved having my supplies out everywhere - ready at a moments notice.

My mother, however, did not.

One day when I was out, she took a photograph to show me how messy and disorderly my room really was. As a neat freak who demanded order in the whom, she was hoping that if I saw my room for how it really was, I’d change.

But a funny thing happened.

When she had the photograph developed, she saw my room for what it really was - artistic and beautiful.

She saw the bright colours all over, the art strawn on the tables and floors, the magical world that I had created. She giggled to herself as she looked at the photograph and decided not to show me. She never complained about my room again.

It took me ten years to hear this story.

During my Corporate Stint, when I tried so hard to fit into the suit wearing, lots of meeting, drinking coffee atmosphere, my home was a perfect showcase. Free of colour, clutter, anything “weird” or “offensive.” It was your typical Ikea showroom floor. Everything had a place, and if it didn’t, I’d find it.

Luckily, I’ve gotten over it.

There’s something comfortable to me to have my paints sitting on the table - almost as if they beg me to use them - even if it’s badly.

My stash of writing supplies are sprawled by the couch, the table, the computer and even beside the bed. I have secreat boxes of stickers, pens, pictures hidden throughout the flat. Special forts I create during the day when I need a private office space to work in. Things are all over the place and somehow, it doesn’t look messy. It looks like home.

In my Docent Class tonight we had a fabulous art teacher come in to explain how to teach art to children from ages 5-11. I, however, listened and applied all that she said to how to teach myself.

I learned that children are so completely in the moment with everything they do. They’re not looking a week down the road or twenty years in advance. It’s what in front of them right now that matters the most.

So when they create, they use what’s in their brain at that moment. They don’t have yesterdays garbage or tomorrows idea of perfection. Instead, they dive in and just do art.

Children also have less fear when it comes to art. As adults, we start to build up walls and forget to just “do art” and criticise ourselves before anything gets started. Children deny the mistake, adults try to avoid it.

Children enjoy the process of making art, of writing, of being creative. Gluing, painting, drawing, cutting, being tactile and making smiley faces makes them happy. Adults worry about the end result so much that the process ends up becomming a hassle.

I’ve decided to act like a kid about art, in hopes to get over my fears of it. It’s perfect timing since I’m getting back to enjoying the process and less with worrying about the end result.

So tonight, instead of crining at everything I create, I’m going to just keep going at it. I won’t judge it, determine it’s worth, or give up because I’m doing nothing more than stick men and ink blots.

Instead I’ll keep drawing or painting and let the mistakes come out. I’ll keep practicing, let my mind wander in my imagination and plug away at creativity. Most of all, I’ll enjoy the process and feeling paint on my fingers and a smile on my face.

I realise more and more that what I’m doing becomes less and less about the money, the publishing, and the end result but more importantly about the process.

At first I was so anxious to get somewhere - until I realised there wasn’t anywhere to “get to.” There is no ending point, no levelling off place. There isn’t somewhere you get to where you can just say, “I did it all! I’m done!”

Then I became anxious about being published; thinking that was what would make me a “real writer.” That is until I realised that by just writing, I was a writer and that outside validation couldn’t do anything if I didn’t believe in myself first.

After that I became anxious about money. It was (and still is sometimes) a huge issue and I thought if I’m worth something, I should make money. Then I realised that what I’ve received from doing this, you can’t buy. Things such as new friendship, opportunities, kind words, feeling of satisfaction at the end of each day, happiness, excitement, feeling good about who I am, amazing emails and the ability to live out my passion.

Then I became worried about people’s reactions to me and my work. Then I found out that I can’t control others reactions to me, and even though someone may not like what I’ve done there are probably 5 that did. I learned that writing is more about my needs, than that of others.

Worrying about end results left me miserable. Writing seemed like a chore because there wasn’t just the writing to think about, but all these other things. Each attempt I made at writing I felt had to be perfect and meaningful. Every attempt I made I wondered if I could get paid for it and how much. Instead of writing how I wanted too, I’d first ask if it was publishable, and if anyone would like it. I was no longer writing “in the moment” but instead, for the end result. That lead to me being neither happy nor proud of all the work I was doing and not wanting to write at all.

So I stopped thinking about what would happen to my writing when I was done. Instead, I went back to basics and wrote as though no one was ever going to see it, and that didn’t matter.

Almost instantaneously I felt more free, alive, creative and the passion I thought I was losing came back. I was able to once again enjoy the process of writing because I didn’t have all this weight baring down on me. It’s hard to sometimes not worry about the outcome of something I’m doing, but for my own sanity that’s what I need to do. If I’m doing what I love to do and am happy with the work I’ve done, then really, then end result doesn’t matter as much.

Writing, art, creativity - it’s so much more than words on a page or a painting on the wall. It’s about emotion, joy, fear, struggle, learning, accepting, happiness, compassion, friendship, play and everything in between. It’s a process, and I hope I don’t forget that again.