When I was a child, and first started writing, I had this vision of my adult self sitting in a garret, in a castle, wearing a fancy robe, and writing hundreds of books.
I still daydream about that, but with a little bit of sarcasm thrown in. Like an inner satire monologue with a Wes Anderson vibe montage. “Hah, hah,” I say to myself. “How chic, yet unrealistic.” Then I concentrate on what color robe I’m wearing and whether the relationship with my dreamy, rich husband is good or on the rocks (for the drama, of course).Continue reading “Writers Need Money Too”