how may i serve you?Powerhouse Museum Collection / Foter / No known copyright restrictions

Welcome to Hell

How may I serve you?
Hell isn’t metaphysical. It isn’t even lyrical. It’s real. Hell is real. And this one is mine. Right here on good old Earth. Right here in the deep south.

It all started when I gave up a job I’d had for nigh on twenty years. It was a pretty sweet job, and I didn’t appreciate it. So, I gave it up for a whim that lasted almost all of ninety days after I left. Then I had NOTHING to fall back on and fell into the pit.

Pit of despair. Pit of my own making. Fool.

But by and large, I ended up somewhere and worked as a temp for about a year before they decided to hire me on permanently. And I have been there ever since. The good the bad and the ugly has happened to me.

The hell part comes in now, and I am not even talking about my workplace. I don’t mind the job. I just don’t want to work for someone else. I want the heaven of working for myself. Can you say Dream-a-preneur?

I want to be a full-time writer.

There you have it. My Hell. My H-E- DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS. It’s painful to even get up in the mornings knowing that I am not going to go over to the computer and do my own thing. It’s horrible to listen to other podcasters or Youtubers and hear them talk about the writing life and how it is for them and know they get to do it FULL TIME every day. Why can’t that be me? Why do I have to endure working for someone else—my time is my time!

This is my dilemma. I want to quit my job. I want to stay at home and write full time. I want this so badly I actually get ill when I realize it is Sunday night and the next day I have to go to work. At a job. In a building. Dressed in fancy clothes. For a paycheck.

And that is what makes this hell so unique. I am making money at my job. I get a regular paycheck, I do not have to worry about anything (except making more money). If I were to work for myself, making money would become a mantra. I would be singing to myself every day saying, “go make money-go write books-go make money-go write books…” and so on.

This is HELL, people. I want something that will end up being the death of me. It will send me to the darkest place of destitution. Why do I think it will be so grand?

Well, for one thing I love my PJs and bunny slippers and a hot cup of coffee every day as I type. Wouldn’t you love to be able to sit in PJs all day and write?

So am I alone out there??? IS there anyone else who is slavering to have the writing life all to themselves?