I am a liar, which makes me an ideal candidate to be a writer. Liars already know what they are going to say, and a writer knows the importance of using the right words. I put the two together. (Not a bad hook and a creepy admission to boot might pull this off.)

I’ve always known I was a writer. It’s true. Like most of you, I fell in love with reading and writing at a very young age. Writing is something I have always done. I read. I write. Again, not much different than you. The thing with me is, I don’t share. I never have.

Well, that is not true. I published a few articles in local rags you find at entrances of bars, clubs or greasy spoon restaurants. That stopped the moment anyone tried to wrestle any kind of creative control away from me. I would write for a few months, only to quit the moment someone else decided what I was going to contribute.

I have always treated my writing as a hobby, and never as a profession. I come from a blue collar environment. Someone like me, could make a living building sentence and stacking paragraphs was not even something to consider. I figured that my skill set involved labor, not sentence structure. Also, five bucks for a 500-word count art review that took three hours to write does not bode well for someone with my midwestern mentality. I couldn’t rationalize working 40 hours a week for pennies, even if it was my passion.

Everything changed four months ago. I read Mastery by Robert Greene. Now realize up to this point, I believed that it took a certain type of person to be a writer and that somebody was not me. I am not self-deprecating here, but I was oblivious to the potential of what I was capable of doing with a pen and paper.

In my reality, I already was the best-selling author. I had stacks and stacks of 5 subject 180-page wide rule notebooks sitting in my closet to prove it. I didn’t consider I had shot at it in the real world. Well, not until I read that book.

I realized I was already on the path to becoming a master. Now hold on, I am not implying I am even on the level of any literary greats. Every day I give patience and daily action to my writing. I didn’t know the likes of Bradbury, King, or any other big name authors did the same. I just thought they were born that way.

That book was the catalyst for me to start taking my hobby more seriously. It made me realize that there was something a lot bigger inside of me and I was a fool to not treat it with respect. The inspiration I was feeling made me reevaluate my life and my time. I could actually pull this off, so I changed everything.

One post on Medium suggested a beginning writer carve out thirty minutes a day and commit it to writing. Thirty minutes to me is a cigarette break and a cup of coffee. Who gets results this way? If I wanted big change, I need to do big things, so thirty minutes became three hours. Three books in five days became five books in four days. I would write seven days a week, 3 hours a day, no fail. I needed to treat my writing with the same intensity as my 9–5 job, and I have been at it for the last 4 months.

Now the lie. The introduction was a ruse. Everything I said was true, but my reasoning to write wasn’t to introduce myself. I read somewhere that a writer should always write for one person, and this post is for that someone. You see, I wasn’t actually going to contribute anything to Medium for at least another 6 months. I have a plan in place with my writing, but something unexpected happened.

My best friend needs me. He is in a far away place where it is always dark on even the brightest of days. I want him to see my writing as a beacon, the shining light for him to follow home. I need his audience right now, more than I need yours. I need him here if I am going to do this. Can you see why now liars make the best writers?