Tomorrow marks three months of living off family and being jobless—talk about scary.
If my husband doesn’t find a real job soon, then I’m worried we’ll be living with my in-laws for another three months. It’s not that I’m unwilling to work, on the contrary I’ve been editing myself blind on my most recent manuscript, but as many other writers can attest, it’s not lucrative when you’re starting out.
I’m in a period of my writing career where I’m desperately questioning everything. Am I good enough? Are my stories original ? Do they capture the audience? Yet I know I’ve improved, I’ve learned so much and yet there’s just as much I don’t understand.
Then again fuck it. If I’m going to be unsuccessful then so be it. I’ll live off baked potatoes and figure out how to build a tiny house. Because you know what’s scarier than failing?
Not bothering to try.