The trouble with being deeply antisocial and massively self absorbed, a family trait of which I am proud, is that when you find the perfect job for you – the likelihood is its a somewhat solitary affair that, whilst deeply emotionally satisfying, doesn’t actually make you any money. I know this to be true as many of my family members spend endless hours doing things, usually by themselves, that make them happy and – unless they are all laughing at my expense, which is possible – there is not a millionaire amongst them.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not all about the money – which is handy – but, I do need some to survive. I’m lucky, three years ago we were declared bankrupt and our house was repossessed. Admittedly at the time this smarted a smidge, and I didnt feel overly lucky the day I sat in court to have my wrists slapped for being a victim of the beginning of the financial crisis (…and possibly a little over zealous with a credit card/mortgage commitment/car collection…) but the affidavit I swore upon ultimately resolved more things than it hurt. Whilst it’s true to say that our ability to have a mortgage, take out a loan or get an Apple Mac on tic is thwarted somewhat (I’ve tried – not even an Apple Mac), on the flip side it affords us (!) the chance to live life in the now – if we cant afford it, we cant have it. If we want it badly enough, we save up. If we are so desperate for it that we would sell our children, we vow to buy the biggest and most expensive version of it the moment we get our first paid writing gig. We have to do that, selling our children is frowned upon.
The only downside is that, despite being out of work, Mondays are my new Monday. In fact, Mondays are my new ‘jab myself in the eye with a battery charger because that will be less painful than trying to sit down and write 2000 words that are in anyway a useful contribution to the book’. Today has been another laborious Monday. Crappy dialogue, disappointing descriptions and an unnecessary amount of procrastination which was all wrapped up by an unhealthy interest in what the birds in my garden were eating. In fact, so obsessed was I by this that I made home made bird seed and put it in a half coconut shell before hanging it out in a tree. Seriously. This was precious writing time and I was creating culinary delights for a couple of tits. I managed, despite the distraction and inability to write anything of any merit, to achieve my daily target and I’m sure that, if I can resist reading it back tomorrow morning, tomorrow will prove to be a more successful day, but dear god – this solitary world I have created is torture. And I dont mean in a 50 shades of shit way.
And to the women on the school run who ask me. No. I’m not writing ‘another 50 shades’… I didn’t write the first, I couldn’t possibly write anything like it (as my long suffering husband would no doubt testify) and however wealthy she may be right now, *looks in empty purse* I bet her tits are starving.