My writing is not going anywhere, really. It's not doing even enough to earn the minimum threshold for a royalty payment. I'm beginning to doubt that it ever will. That makes me sad, because I stated out with such hopes. Of course I'll still write. I can't not. But I'm no longer hopeful that I'll ever be able to make any kind of living from it. A shame.
I've finished my acrylic painting of a dragon, and my mind has turned to the next painting project - the one that will conclude my oil painting lessons from Shillshare.
These thoughts are not unrelated.
This pandemic has left me with far too much time to think. Far too much time to reconsider.
I would go back to my old job in a heartbeat. It didn't pay well, but it gave me my weekends, my evenings, holidays. Stability. And, should my old job be no longer available, as so many jobs have become, I will be one of thousands of folks searching for a very limited number of available places in the workforce.
CERB has been extremely helpful, but it won't last forever. Canada seems entirely unwilling to consider Universal Basic Income at all, despite, well, *gestures vaguely at everything.*
To be perfectly honest, while I hate the anxiety of my current employment situation, and would happily return to my previous job, I've really rather enjoyed the time I've been granted to pursue my other passions.
I've spent a great deal of time thinking about whether this was something I could make permanent. If I could find a way to change my life, make it so I could do this all the time.
I always joke that I'll need to win the lottery. But that's never going to happen. Besides, plenty of people have made the artistic life work for them. Perhaps I can, too?
Then again, it's a very circular problem. I need money in order to buy the supplies I need to make these projects happen. In order to get that money, I need to sell some pieces. If I can't sell (which, given my spectacular marketing of my books (sarcasm, yo) is a distinct probability), then I can't buy what I need to make the next thing.
Still, I'm getting itchy. Restless. I know this means I need to change something.
But then I stand up and look down and freeze. It seems an impossible task. The chances of success are slim (see also: my books), and odds of failure astronomically high. There is no parachute. No net. This kind of change terrifies me for these reasons.
I wonder how folks take this plunge. I admire them so much for their courage and their conviction, both of which I lack. I don't know how they do it. I don't know how I could.
Still, I'm thinking about it. I'm making a list of things I need to do the crafts and art I want to (like all the leather carving tools, dyes, a carving mat, wood carving tools, canvasses, all the paint, etc). I'm thinking about whether trying is even worth it. I'm thinking about what I will have to do when my support systems expire.
Maybe my next big project isn't the oil painting I'll be doing for the end of this month. Maybe It's a complete overhaul of my life.
Anyway, I need to think some more. But first I have manuscripts that require editing.