This past month has been interesting. I’ve done some freelance work (business writing), got paid for a short story – for research not publication. (But still! Paid for a quick flash fiction that took me an hour to write.) I have three short fiction pieces on submission, one rejection under my belt. I finished a 70,000 word rough draft for CampNaNoWriMo.
Last week, I finally got everything moved from St. Louis back to Pennsylvania. When changing my car insurance over, the guy asked for my profession and I said self-employed, then writer. He jokingly said, you have a Master’s. J.K. Rowling was a middle-aged housewife. You’ll make it. At the time I laughed. Now it is bringing tears to my eyes.
I wanted to interrupt the car insurance guy and explain that the stuff I get paid for is thus far not New York Times bestseller material. My novels (yes, I’m jugging several) are all fantasy, but they’re not my living – yet. Maybe ever. But I’d rather try and fail than never try.
I want to say something incredibly clever and brilliant that will bring tears (ideally of laughter) to people’s eyes, but I’m mostly exhausted – and loving every moment. I keep being sorely tempted to give this up and find A Real Job with better pay. I keep telling myself, give this till the end of the year.
Then I follow the thread of thought and action that led me to this point, from obsessively writing my first novel at ten years old to graduating with a Creative Writing degree back in 1999 to working Real Jobs because I wanted to *live* before writing. Now, here I am, and … I must be out of my mind because I think I’m ready. Maybe.
P.S. Sorry this is late! I set it up to auto-post late last night but for some reason it was saved as draft instead. But … it’s still Wednesday!