Last night I couldn’t sleep and spent a little bit of time wondering what my life would be like if I put as much effort into a proper job as I do into my writing. Usually, I am at my computer very early in the morning and am still here late at night. I also carry notebooks about, think about my story all the time, read books and and magazines about writing and other writers, talk to people about writing and most of my friends are writers too.
I would probably, I decided, be at the top of the corporate ladder. I would live in a penthouse made of glass and money and employ someone to turn the pages of the instruction manuals I would need to spend my time reading in order to keep my place at the top. I’d wear suits, and shoes of the kind I no longer own. I would enjoy the respect of my friends and family. I’d have a subscription to a newspaper and read it every day, I reckon.
Life is not working out like that so far. When Small Fry first arrived I used to have lots of dreams about the thankless, endless task of feeding her. Filling broken buckets up with milk using a tea-spoon. Trying to get milk out of a bottle that wouldn’t open. That sort of thing. I am having dreams a bit like that about my writing now.