The weeks are flying by and if I stop to count how many days are left in this sabbatical, I think I’ll cry. The last year and a half that I spent working in data was one of the most miserable experiences of my entire life and the thought of going back to work somewhere when I know I should be writing makes me sick. But the sad truth is that I’ve spent a lot more money in the past couple of weeks than I’d originally anticipated and until book sales are supplementing my income, when the money’s gone it’s…just…gone.
And now I’m crying because I just counted the days even though I said I wouldn’t and there are only 23 left!!!
The truth is that I’ve accomplished a lot so far but of course it’s not enough. The first draft of book 5 is currently sitting at about 16K, book 4 is simmering and awaiting its next round of revisions, and book 3 will be finished by the end of the month. All signs of progress, all good things. But I’m not celebrating. I can’t, not when I know what might be waiting for me at the end of the finish line. A cubicle, that dreaded small talk by the water cooler, itchy blazers, shoes! I hate wearing shoes! Oh the horror!
Or…by some miraculous turn of events my next release will finally be the one to catch fire, selling thousands of copies and skyrocketing up Amazon’s best sellers list and all my dreams will come true.
I’d like that one. Can I have that one?