I think one of the hardest things about being a writer is living in the real world.
The daily grind of working a day job — something other than what you love — is a mind-numbing, soul-sucking, joy-killing necessity for survival.
I remember a conversation I had with a co-worker a few years back. His name was Matt. Matt was not a writer the way that I am, but he was still an artist. He was a musician and song writer.
One day, I was on my break and I felt the urge to step outside and put in my earbuds and listen to some music. I just had to do something that would take me away from the stress and unending monotony.
I saw Matt was walking back to the office as he had just finished his break. I asked him how he was doing. “Okay,” he said.
Now, Matt was usually a gregarious guy and always kidding around, but there as an air about him that day that seemed pretty downtrodden. At least that was what I picked up on. I suspected that maybe he suffered from the same thing I did.
“Working a regular job is hard for artsy types like us, isn’t it?” I asked, taking a chance that I was right.
“Yes, it is,” he answered with a wan smile. “It’s harder than most people know.”
These days, I have a job that I actually like for the most part, but it still takes me away from the worlds I want to create.
Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful to have a decent job and the best bosses a person could ask for, but in my heart, I am always wishing I was at home writing … giving life to the people in my head.
Until the day I can write fiction full time, I guess I will be singing the day job blues.