Giving up had been a persistent itch on the back of my mind, particularly after I graduated. I have currently made no moves to go to graduate school, though my major (Psychology) would probably require it for me to get a job that would both pay well and be enjoyable. I would much prefer to have a mediocre day job (or none at all) and have books traditionally published then go back for more school (though I'd love to work IN schools as a therapist, etc.), but the gamble incorporated with publishing in general is making this decision difficult.
I love writing for myself. It's fun, I get to tell stories I enjoy, and it is extremely fulfilling. I'd love to do it for a career.
I've been keeping my eye on the prize for quite some time now with no success. It isn't that I'm a quitter, it's that I'm wrought with frustrations. This is my sixth novel (and undoubtedly my best), but I have seen no success with any of them thus far. It's an annoyance, but such annoyances can certainly build up, especially since I don't have a career to fall back on should this collapse from beneath me.
Point: I'm in a transition state in my life and it bothers me. I should probably just be enjoying it for what it is, but I'm finding that too hard. I'm ready for something solid, a place I can hang my hat at least for a few years and know that is what I want to do. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem feasible.
Add to the fact that the day job is encroaching on writing (specifically conventions), and it's just a huge bundle of worms.
So I'm not giving up, not yet. It's just been a rather rotten couple of days (couple of months, truthfully) and since it was writing related I figured it wouldn't be all that awful to post it on here.
Now that I'm emoed out, know I wrote over 3k a day every day last week except Friday, where I had friends over and I wrote about 1.5k.
So I have that, at least.
Boring quote about BREAD!
A little bell jingled when she opened the door to the bakery. A large, flour-covered man raised a hand in greeting before turning and pulling a pallet of delicious smelling breads from the oven. Ciara felt her mouth water, the mixture of oats and honey tantalizing. There was only one other customer in the shop, a young man about her age who was eyeing the sweets.
“Cinnamon bread is my favorite,” Ciara remarked offhand as she passed by, remembering the treat from when she had been a child. “Make sure you have a glass of milk handy, though; it’ll stick to your throat.”
The young man turned, dark black hair running across his eyes. He wore clothes of an upperclass citizen but not lavish enough to be Kian: a red suitcoat with brass buttons. He had a goatee that accented his sharp features, nose like a hawk’s beak.
His eyes made a quick scan of Ciara’s face, Mark, and chest. He then gave her a small smile, pointing to another pastry behind the glass.
“I was actually thinking of the raisin-nut with the glaze. My fiancée is partial to anything with nuts in it.”
“If it’s nuts you want, you should probably just get a whole cake,” Ciara smiled, pointing to a particularly delicious looking one with an orange-glowing finger. “Unless she’s also partial to raisins.”
“She hates them, actually,” the man turned back, bending over to glance at the cake on the lower shelf. “But she didn’t want anything particularly sweet, just taisty. Honestly, she probably just wants something expensive and doesn’t care exactly what.”