Musings on Life (Again)

I'm not really sure what I wanted to talk about this week. The general malaise that I had laboured under in the months leading up to and the few weeks following the US election has lifted slightly. This is largely, I think, because I have retreated from most social media, just lightly touching base of Facebook and BlueSky for the most part. But also because my birthday is done and over. I really dislike the day. Don't ask.

It's not the aging that bothers me. It's the fact that at this age, I'm nowhere near where I wanted to be in life. The reality is... disappointing, really. Every year, I struggle to reconcile my ideas of success with where I am in life, and how little (or how much) things have changed. I am trying to change that mindset. But for someone like me, who has never met anyone who bullies me worse than myself (and that is saying something), it's a genuine struggle.

I'm going to try find the good things for every frustration that I have. Let's start with the most obvious and deepest frustration:

I'm not earning a living with my writing.

This is a real bug in my ear. I've been trying to take my writing seriously since 2010. I have a substantive number of titles out in the world. If I earn $20.00 a year from my writing, that's a good year. Now, I know that my inability to market effectively is my fault, and that is a large part of it. But still, more earnings would be great. I don't need to be a J.K. Rowling level multi-millionnaire (would not say no to that, though, to be frank). I just want enough to be able to stay home and write full time without risk of dying of starvation or suffering homelessness. I don't want to have to wake up, and go to an office to do work that doesn't light me up so that someone else can earn a bunch of money. I have no interest in climbing any corporate ladders. I'm just done with "office culture." Earning enough to write full time would be wonderful, please and thank you.

I've written several blog posts all about why I'm sure I've failed thus far to earn a living from my writing. Much of it is stuff that is out of my control, some of it is stuff I simply don't have access to (the aid of a spouse, for example), and some of it is my own failing as a marketer. Perhaps also as a writer. Maybe my books are just not good, you know?

I'm trying so hard to reframe these thoughts, but I'm struggling. I'm going to try and focus on the good things this writing journey has brought me:

First, my friends. I've met such wonderful people via conventions and online spaces where writers and readers gather. Some of them have become very dear friends and I'm so grateful for them. They have been essential in ensuring I don't simply give up/shuffle around my apartment in a Victorian nightgown wailing in despair. These are people I now cannot imagine my life without. Thank heavens for each and every one of them.

Second, despite my frustrations with it, having a full time job has ensured that I can feed myself, and have somewhere warm to sleep. With these things taken care of, I'm able to spend my (granted quite limited) spare time writing/creating (and other hobbies). I am grateful that these things are taken care of, even if it's not on the merits of my creative work, so I can continue my creative work.

Third, having a creative outlet at all. Even though it is a compulsion, and I would literally go mad if I didn't have my writing to expunge the nonsense going on in my head, I am very grateful that I do have that outlet. A lot of people don't or refuse the call, and are frequently more miserable than I. I get to convert my wayward thoughts write out my brain's weirdness. I'm so grateful that my brain is a little wonky in this way, oddly enough (except for my depression. That can go get fucked. It's the absolute worst).

Another frustration I have is not owning my own home. When I was younger, I had been pretty sure I'd have my own house by the time I was 30. 30 was a long time ago now, and I still don't have my own home. I mean, yeah, the housing market is appalling right now, and yeah, wages have not kept up with normal inflation, let alone the greedy price gouging of life's necessities making existence expensive as hell, so the prospect of buying a home without some sort of crazy lotto win (or other just as likely influx of large amounts of money) is next to impossible. Particularly because I'm living on a single income.

I want my own house. I want to decorate it as I like. I'm tired of the perpetual beige walls I'm forced to live with as a renter. I'm sad I don't have my library with floor to ceiling book cases. I'm tired of the sounds of traffic while I'm trying to sleep. I want to be surrounded by trees and colour in a space that's my own. I want a fireplace to read beside on chilly evenings.

But I do have somewhere to live. And it is kinda my own, even though I'm not allowed to paint it. No one is really allowed to enter... except my landlords when the notice goes out. Which I'm not a fan of. But I have a home. And it's warm, and keeps the rain and snow off, so there's that.

I feel like I'm complaining a lot. Sorry. Just thinking out loud. On paper. Um... on screen. There we go. Modernity is screwing with my idioms, damn it. But yeah. My two biggest dissatisfactions in life are that I'm not earning a living with my craft and I don't have a home of my own. There are others, but they're all relatively small compared.

When I was a kid, I was sure I would be a high-powered lawyer (or CEO or something), living in a great big house, respected... and perhaps feared a little... by all.

I've changed my goals substantially since I was a tween. I now just want a little cottage in the woods living my best life as a forest witch who makes money selling stories to those who love them. I don't think that's too much to ask.