Since Sunday I have written a grand total of 1200 words. Better than nothing at all, and yet…they feel so spartan and sad.
It’s been hard every morning to tear myself away to go to the day job. I even like my job, but yet it’s physically painful to go and give 9 of my best hours to someone else’s dream.
Last weekend was fabulously productive. I wrote over 5000 words of good forward progress and got halfway through sewing a spencer jacket, starting without a pattern. Why can’t I just stay home every day and write and make things to sell on Etsy?
As soon as I hit the point where income from writing is even half what my day job pays me in a month, I’m all in. Until then, it’s 70 hour work weeks as I spend 45 at work and another 25 working at dreams. Sigh.