Embracing change
I was recently given some really good advice. And, like most good advice it caused me to have a knee-jerk, terrified reaction. That moment when your brain knows that what you're hearing is brilliant and exactly what you need to do, but your body rejects the concept violently, refusing to roll with it and causing you to scramble away mentally, eyes wide and hair flailing. Probably crying.
The good advice was from my friend, Ms. Erin Fae, who suggested that after nearly a decade of being a housewife I should start preparing myself for a career. Become professional. Create a "Brand." Sell myself.
Because at the end of the day, the thing I love is writing. Adam, my husband, would happily allow me to write and write and write, never doing anything more exciting with my work except printing it out and stacking it up in folders. Never to be read, except when I'm able to corner friends into reading it, because he loves and supports me even if I never bring in a single dime.
The part of my brain that protests, "But you're an artist. Money shouldn't matter," is full of itself, but right, however we all know the difference between saying "I'm a writer" and being a writer is getting published.
The reality, of course, is that it's most likely a pipe dream - I'm like that thirty year old guy who still thinks his band is going to make it, but I've made changes. Expect a change of content here, and for me to become more aggressive with self-promotion.
And that's your announcement
The good advice was from my friend, Ms. Erin Fae, who suggested that after nearly a decade of being a housewife I should start preparing myself for a career. Become professional. Create a "Brand." Sell myself.
Because at the end of the day, the thing I love is writing. Adam, my husband, would happily allow me to write and write and write, never doing anything more exciting with my work except printing it out and stacking it up in folders. Never to be read, except when I'm able to corner friends into reading it, because he loves and supports me even if I never bring in a single dime.
The part of my brain that protests, "But you're an artist. Money shouldn't matter," is full of itself, but right, however we all know the difference between saying "I'm a writer" and being a writer is getting published.
The reality, of course, is that it's most likely a pipe dream - I'm like that thirty year old guy who still thinks his band is going to make it, but I've made changes. Expect a change of content here, and for me to become more aggressive with self-promotion.
And that's your announcement
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