I can’t help the feeling that I waste an awful lot of time, and I don’t mean that in the terrible habit of procrastination sense. What I mean is that there are around twelve hours every week day when I am out of the house and unable to work. This is because I am at my job, which I must tell you is far different to my work. My work is writing, something I’ve wanted to do since I was about five years old, and have done with guiltless abandon since. My job is a different matter altogether.
When I was at university I wondered where I would end up, how I’d earn my way in the world, how I’d start paying back those damn student loan cats and here we are, I work in an office in London. It’s a far cry from the boy who wanted to be C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien. I know it has to be done, I know we all do it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t think it’s fair and that it just seems to detract from what I want to do and what I now appreciate I am capable of doing. I know writing will probably never be stable enough for me to rely on it as a steady form of income but I know I’ll keep doing it as long as I’ve got ink and fingers (and even if either of those should go I’ll find a way).
The fun of writing is therefore restrained to weekends, a time when I can’t really face doing anything a lot of the time because I’m trying to get over my job. Oh woe is me, stop it this instant, you’ve got a job, you’ve just finished your first novel, you’re young and in love and there’s plenty more of all that (wherever it came from).
I’m sorry, sometimes it is just hard to remember the track you are on, and you have to just scream into the abyss.