I’m finding it difficult to write these days. My day job is in jeopardy. I’m looking for a new one. My immediate future is not secure so it’s hard for me to make a plan to get published. It’s hard to focus on my writing career when I’m worried about bills. It’s hard to talk to bookstores about selling my novel on consignment when I can’t afford to order any. If I’m not sure how next month’s rent will be paid, how can I sit still at my desk and write? But I feel that I must or else I will lose my mind.
Right now, all I have are my relationships and my dreams. Is it enough? It was when I was in college, when checks bounced regularly and I lived on ramen noodles. I guess I’ve gotten spoiled over the past few years. We haven’t had much, but we’ve had enough of an income to go home for holidays, watch movies at the theater, sample the local restaurants once in awhile, and buy nice birthday presents for friends and family. This year, we’re cutting back on all entertainment and we’re being creative with presents.
Growing up, I always thought that money wasn’t important. I wish that were still true. But I’m starting to wonder if Virginia Woolf was right after all. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” I’m hoping she wasn’t.