So this week finally saw me finish - all bar some last-minute tweaks - the final draft of The Bones of You. My agent loved it, her editorial comments were brief and merciful, and at the end of this week I'll be sending it off to the publisher.
Then it's time to forge ahead with The Quiet Room, which I hope to finish before the summer. I also have a few shorter projects to fit in, but I don't intend to stress myself out by taking on too much. Fuck that shit; life's too short to kill yourself through stress.
Which neatly segues into another subject:
Over the past few weeks I've seen a few blogs written about the subject of being a full-time writer. People taking the plunge, giving up the day job.
Good luck to them, I say, but that's a dream of mine that's lost its gloss.
I have a family to support, a mortgage to pay, and I'm not prepared to readjust to a life of low and unreliable income and massive pressure. I don't want to write tie-in novels, I don't want to have to take on editing or proof-reading jobs as an alternative income stream. I want to write the stuff that I want to write, and I'll never get rich doing that. So I'll continue with my career, and write on the side, just like a lot of writers do. The money I make from writing is a welcome bonus. It's taken a while, but I've finally come to terms with this lifestyle choice and have adjusted my writing schedule to suit. I feel a lot less stressed now.