Looks like it’s another three-blog night. Sounds like a 1960’s rock band, Three Blog Night… For those of you who didn’t read the previous entry, posted moments ago, it basically says, “I’m going to spend the next three years thinking of hare brained schemes to avoid being a thirty year old unpublished waste of space who looks after toddlers for a living.”
But is that necessary?
I love babysitting. Call me crazy, but I don’t need a hefty salary, mortgage, car, savings account, 401K plan, or ten-year plan in order to enjoy my life. Just good company, a place to set my candle, and a bar of Black and Green ginger. With such minimal needs, my current lifestyle perfectly satisfies, offering time to create, fun work, keen friends, a boyfriend who inspires poetry. My present is flexible and fine, my future equally interesting. If this is true today, it’s safe to assume it will continue to be true until it isn’t, at which point, other options will present themselves.
Why worry about future success if my present lack of success makes me perfectly happy? I’ve made a classic error, confusing approval from others with approval from within. To put it bluntly, a fat check or hardback manifestation of my current manuscript won’t mean diddly if I still dread sitting down at the keyboard, as I do now, and view the words on the page as unsatisfactory hooey.
I don’t want to expend energy creating things to sell. I want to expend energy creating, full stop. Choosing the words, spreading the paint, making the time, making the effort, each day, every day. Holding myself to my own standards. Finding out what kind of author I am, even if it takes three years or thirty. Even if those years are paid for by chasing after toddlers. That’s my birthday gift to myself.