Lake Lewisia #9

The summer horizon filled with balloonists taking up tourists. In sturdy baskets woven of whimsy and wicker, they captained the skies alongside lake gulls. Artisanal crafters went up amongst them in rigs built from soap bubbles, their transparent walls casting rainbows over the faces of newlyweds and retirees.

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LL#9

You cannot get out from here

(I originally posted this on tumblr, and it's still on my mind, so I'm cross-posting it here.)

I made the dubious decision to read a few pieces by writers, talking about the money they make on writing. This was not intended as an exercise in self-torment; I find this information interesting. That being said…

 

When writers making what my poor ass considers pie-in-the-sky extravagant amounts of money say, “hey, good thing I have a day job to supplement this, dON’T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB!!!1!” I begin very softly to weep myself into a coma.

 

I quit my day job in large part because it destroyed my mental and physical health? I don’t know when or even if I will be capable of working an outside job again? I am still kind of hoping that writing, which I couldn’t do while employed, will allow my disabled self to at least survive?

 

I get it--clearly I am not the intended audience for this advice. I’m not trying to find fault with the writers doing the community the kindness of speaking frankly about the often-taboo matter of finances.

 

I just…cannot find it in me to laugh at the old jokes about naive writers who quit their day jobs too soon. I can’t help flinching when I unfold The Map Out Of The Wilderness, and see

 

YOU ARE HERE*

*you cannot get out from here