(no subject)

Whee. I gots Mondays back at work! This means a painfully slow night, but I get to write the sign-in sheets again, which is fun because I can catch scheduling errors. And I do. Amazing Sara, who doesn't understand that if you spend six months writing up the sign-in sheets every week you learn all the patterns. So, six evenings at work this evening. Friday off, which will be odd odd odd.

This is me going to wander off on a crack sugar high for a bit now despite having ingested neither crack nor sugar. Bouncie bouncie byeeeee~!

(no subject)

I love my parents. I know they love me. That does not, however, mean that we understand one another in our entireties. While I grant that their viewpoints have basis (I am nine years out of high school and still not finished with college or holding down a gainful career-type job), I still really really hate it when they treat my writing--something I have been obsessed with and serious about since I was ten and they well know this--as something for which the quantification of the end result is desirable. In short, they want me to be able to make a living at it.

It's not that I wouldn't love to do that, but I know the odds. The reason J.K.Rowling or Stephen King are so amazing is that they beat the odds... they not only manage to eke out a living on their writing, they have become freaking wealthy and famous.

For the most part, tellers of tales are anonymous and poor. While I don't think this is how the world should be, this is how the world is.

I do this because I love it with a bone-deep soul-deep passion, and for no other reason.