I know we live in a world where you have to make money to enjoy certain comforts of life. Hell, I want those comforts as much as the next guy—I like having a roof over my head, thank you very much. But more often than not, the money isn’t worth the things I seem to have to sacrifice to get it.
Freedom. Sanity. Brainpower to work on my own projects. Having a j-o-b shouldn’t come at such a high cost. (I saw how my parents suffered growing up.)
Many writers dream of the day they can quit their day job and pursue writing full-time. And, as much as I want to make a living writing stories in cafes around the world, that’s not entirely what I’m after either.
I like getting to use my brain in multiple ways (see my post on how contradictory I seem to be). In fact, at the pace I’m going—300 words a day—if the only thing I did was write all day, I’d bore myself to death.
But the job I have satisfies me less and less every day. And the very thought of quitting it sends me down an anxiety spiral into the pits of hell.
So I feel stuck.
Everyone tells me I need to “have something else lined up” before I quit. My own logic-brain paralyzes me in guilt and fear, showering me with undeniable proof quitting is a bad idea. Whenever I think about how else I’m supposed to make money, my otherwise fantastic problem-solving ability dries up like a well in the desert.
And in moments like these, writing feels impossible.
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 335)