Years ago, I faced a choice much like many other students: What career path should I take?

I was fortunate to easily navigate school. Maybe a little too easily. I had the ability and the grades to pursue any field I was interested in. My parents had always encouraged us—in our solid middle-classness—to pursue our passions. With little effort, I settled on writing with a goal of writing books but being open to other writing opportunities should they arrive.

What I wanted was a career I was passionate about and that I had a talent for. Something that had flexibility, universal application (at least in my native language; my French writing is terrible), and could be enjoyed not only to retirement but beyond. I was certain, in all my youth and optimism, that money, a home, and all those things would work themselves out.

And in a way, they have—just not the way they do for most people. A theme, I discovered, that would plague me for the rest of my life to date. (Hello, my name is Hannah, and I am a lifelong renter.)

Financially, writing is hard. Unless you have additional resources or someone financially supporting you, you are on your own. Which, when you have rent and bills to pay, food to buy, and a mountain of debt from a spendthrift ex, means it’s all on you.

This is when side hustles come in. Temp jobs, part-time work, contract positions, and all the while cultivating a network in your industry that you hope will one day sustain you . . . that’s no small feat.

Without a mentor or the right networking opportunities, you can slog away for years. My greatest professional breakthrough occurred by answering an ad on a whim, although like many opportunities, I didn’t recognize it at the time.

A well-known book publisher was looking for copyeditors, manuscript evaluators, and copywriters. Thinking I was a shoo-in for editing, I ended up displaying a handy talent for writing book copy. Over the course of fifteen years, this skill grew, along with my reputation. Other publishing folks started reaching out to me, offering me jobs, and it is now the bulk of my annual income.

Writing, like many skills, is one of those things that many undertake and few excel in. It’s very much the kind of profession where the more you truly know, the more you recognize just how much you don’t know.

It’s easy enough to write passably. Writing well, on the other hand, suggests a mix of talent, an ear for crafting sentences, and enough experience to have been able to find your style and refine it credibly well enough to remain consistent. Two decades in, I am able to confidently say, “I am a decent writer.”

I am in awe of those who undertake writing early and have the confidence to throw their writing into the ring quickly and with commitment. That kind of confidence is, in my experience, rare and usually exists with the very young, the very inexperienced, and the very arrogant. Sometimes it is a mark of boldness, and for those intrepid souls, there tends to be something of a career—if they can sustain the criticism, the feedback, and the discouragement that sets in when, after a few successes, they hit a wall. And there is almost always a wall.

The trick is to be open to learning more about what you can do—and how you can do it better. Part of that means stretching your writing legs, so to speak. You have to be able to challenge yourself to do new things, to try different approaches, and to remain flexible and let your goals change as you grow and change. (Like me, you may have set out to write the next great piece of literature, only to find yourself shying away from that genre.)

It also means you have to learn not only how to accept critical feedback but to embrace it. No one likes hearing where they can improve. For me, the trick is to allow myself twenty-four hours of outrage and then sleep on it. The next day, I revisit the offending comments and, lo and behold, I see the truth to them. Often the seemingly outrageous criticism is reduced to a mild suggestion.

Not every piece of feedback must be followed, but it should always, always be considered. Asking yourself, “Does this compromise my art and my work?” must be tempered along with, “Is this fair? Would it improve my writing? Does this person have insight that I am missing?” It’s easy to mistake your ego for your personal values, and it’s by far one of the hardest lessons I have learned.

Taking risks is a part of this job. Unless you are content with just writing for yourself and never, ever having that work see the light of day (let alone be financially compensated for it), you must find the courage to say, “To hell with it,” and email that agent, pitch that story, apply for that writing job. It’s better to try an opportunity and walk away from it than to shut down the possibility.

One of the things I love dearly about being a writer is how much outrageously weird stuff we can learn in the course of research or reading. Who among us hasn’t looked up deadly poisons, gross biological descriptions of rotting corpses, what would happen if you plunked a human being down on any planet in our solar system, and exactly how did people brush their teeth in 1788?

This constant state of learning and looking things up certainly does result in some less than typical Google searches, but it also means that, as long as you hold on to that insatiable curiosity, you will continue learning things for the rest of your life. All kinds of things. When it comes to knowledge, writers aren’t constrained by their profession. We can learn about everything . . . and we do.

Through this blog, I have learned so, so much not only about self-publishing, marketing, and selling books, but about other writers and authors. About what makes us succeed, where our struggles are, and our universal experiences. About our community. And that (for the most part), we want one another to succeed.

Which leads to the last lesson I want to talk about: knowing when it’s time to step away from certain projects or jobs. There comes a time when the work stops meaning anything to us, and it's just work. The spark fades a bit, and the eyes (and brain) begin wandering or begging for a break.

After five incredible years of chatting with you and creating weekly blogs, it’s time for me to step away and hand the reins over to other voices. For me, this means embracing new opportunities and new roles . . . but also revisiting old dreams that have been left to gather dust. This has been an amazing opportunity, and I’ve been grateful for every minute of it and every moment of your time.

Keep writing. Keep fighting.

And never, ever give up on yourself.

Hannah Guy lives in Toronto and is a professional writer and copywriter who specializes in books, books, and more books. Follow her on Twitter at @hannorg.

We would like to thank Hannah for the five years she dedicated to the Writers’ Center, and we wish her luck on her writing journey!