One of these days you’ll see me make a blog post in the middle of the day again. That was not today. In a way, that’s because I had a productive non-writing day, and spent a little time with mum and my step dad in the evening. It was a good day, but writing got shunted to the end. It’s not a big deal, though I do wish I could get an early night soon. Not happening in the short term though, and the ship has sailed tonight. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m stable, but all too aware that I’m not where I want to or need to be. And that goes beyond late nights.
I adore my flat. This is far more than just a rented accommodation to me. It’s the first place I’ve ever afforded by myself with no outside help, and not a cheap one either, two bedrooms meaning I can have this little office to get away from the distractions. I adore it, and wish with all my heart that at the end of my tenancy here I could straight up make an offer to buy it. And well, that will never happen. I could afford the repayment rate, right now in fact, but I’d have no chance of securing the mortgage without a guarantor, which isn’t an option. It’s a harsh truth but, here goes: unless by some miracle my writing takes off, I will never be able to buy this flat.
I do not have the energy right now for that to ignite a true fire inside or underneath me, but I need it to. Sue, 99% of books fail and that assumes you even get a publisher, which assumes you even get an agent if we’re being realists here. The odds I will ever make some income from my work are miniscule. But I have to. I have to try and make some money from my skills or one day I’ll be handing over the keys to someone else, and a little part of me will die that day. I don’t know if that’s me being childish, or if it’s arrogant to think that a guy on £19k a year should ever be given the chance to buy a flat. I’m inclined to think it’s not, for the record, property prices are the greatest scam of our times. But if I want to hold onto this, I’m going to need some kind of miracle. If I am good enough as a writer to earn money then I still need one, because plenty of talented writers never make a penny.
There’s a flame inside, but under the torrential winds that this year mustered and against the dark lonely inside of my heart, it’s burning dim. I do think though, that it is still lit, still shimmering defiant against the night. 764 days ago I couldn’t write on a consistent basis. 631 days ago I couldn’t bring myself to post my thoughts and experiences online like this. 368 days ago the idea of writing a minimum number of words a day on one project still lay beyond reach, and 38 days ago, I still didn’t have a model to edit every single day, to make my stories the best they could be. If all that sticks, and I believe it will, then my next challenge has to be breaking out. If I want to keep this life even as the world crumbles to ash, I am going to have to beat those odds.
I hope there’s still time.