I like to write things contemporaneously – off the cuff – as they say. It allows me to be blase about what I only now consider an option for the future and not some meal ticket.
I don’t know if I have enough faith in anything to abide by the hardest of hard times, and so I don’t want to taste what I see as down the road. If I sell-impose the life of a starving writer I think I will not only write poorly but I will also be even more dismayed should I slip down that slope eventually.
But at the same time, I find myself concerned for something, I can’t say my well being butjust my being. I’ve long lived a life of excuses and trying to make reasons for my state and not ways to change my state. It’s been hard shifting away, to be honest, from self-pity and the support it gave me.
I don’t think I accepted the support of others around me and so I felt that to accept what was transacted in these supporting moments would be like debasing myself, it would be unduly relying on another and I didn’t want that.
It is shocking how much the mind progresses though without being asked to do so.