What am I thinking? Writing words and words, but how on earth can I count this as a career?
I spent yesterday feeling really insecure and anxious. I didn’t like it.
"Hello anxiety, what are your plans for today?"
"Worry, self flagellation (for you, of course), doubt, and a general feeling of ignorance."
"Great! I got started without you."
Started a budget. What do I need to live? Lots more than a part-time teaching, yoga practice and writing could possibly bring in. What I saw in my future yesterday was a return to a job that would reliably bring in money. A huge decrease in the amount of time I could assign to writing. A feeling that it’s just as well, I lack talent anyway.
Today, in desperation, I am writing again even though it’s not on the schedule. It’s Tuesday, and I usually write Monday, Wednesday and Friday for four hours. But there’s a big snow coming and I’ve got to make up the time, ahead of time. I can definitely say I have a great work ethic when it comes to writing.
Then my college-student son casually mentions that he’s majoring in English, minor in Education, loves kids, and maybe he’d like to try writing some children’s books at some point. If I’m sitting here at Go and he blows by me and goes all the way to Park Place before I’ve even bought a stinkin’ railroad, I’m going to...what? Be happy for him, sure. Be jealous? Not of my own son. But feel more like a failure? Sure I will. I have to hurry. Roll double sixes. And my daughter - talented, funny writer, if I can go by facebook posts, and I do, I count that. She's made me laugh out loud, not easy to do with writing.
I’m going to be trampled by the talent in my own house as they run over me towards my goal.
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