I quit my main job last Friday, with a generous four-week notice. After that, I’m free to galavant around the American South for a brief vacation before returning to New York to hustle my ass off for the foreseeable future. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to make it work. Yet through the swamp of doubt, my novel-in-progress remains a great comfort. It is golden, and weighted, and warm. I believe in it. I genuinely think it’s going to be something great, and that writing is my gift to offer the world.
I also think it’s my big ticket outta 9 to 5 hell, my divine cash grab, and my one big shot. My boyfriend (hi, L😘) says that’s not a great reason to write, but I’ve got plenty more where that one came from. Twenty, to be exact…