I’m not sure if it was the consolation trophies my little league team got for coming in last place. Or if it was being told again and again I could be anything, that I could do anything. Or if it was simply the fact that I found more comfort living in a fantasy world than in reality.

Whatever the cause, the effect was this: despite what I said I wanted to be growing up, a part of me clung to the belief that one morning I was going to wake up as a rich entrepreneur. I would go to sleep Trey, wake up Trey the bestselling author, very much in spite of the fact that I had no novels, no words, not even a character to string two words together.

My 20s, for as much heat as they’re taking in this series, were defined by delusions of grandeur, and I can’t let myself off the hook for it.

Overnight successes do not exist. That author who’s topping the NY Times Best Sellers list. The one who was picked to be on Oprah’s Book Club. They spent years writing draft after draft, edit after edit, honing their story.

Or the artist whose music you all of the sudden can’t escape. They played countless shows in basement bars to tens of people.

The worst lie I ever told myself was I’ll be successful someday.

Stop waiting. Start working. You’ll never be ready.