No Rest for the Wicked

On and on it goes.

Life, this blog, the problems and fears. The hopes. And now and again, still, a fleeting dream.

As a writer, I readily admit I'm facing a crisis of confidence. It's not that I doubt my skill or my talent. It's rather that I doubt my viability.

What I mean by that is that every time I sit down and begin to write something that really matters to me, I start to feel guilty because I am not working for money.

At first, I didn't recognize this problem, but lately it has become undeniable.

Take today. After a decidedly lackluster day in many respects, I finally gave myself permission to work on a short story that, if I should publish it, will be under a pseudonym.

That was fine.

Then, I turned to a novel I've been writing over the past year and a half.

After one brief chapter, I abandoned ship.

"What about the financial pressures?" screamed a voice in my head. "What about the audit, for christfuckingsake?"

Suddenly, any hope of further progress was lost. Back to the real world, with my hopes dragging behind like chains, I started remembering that someone in my position has almost no right to dream.

I need to be working and finding money, no matter how hard that may prove to be.

No rest for the wicked.

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