Once upon a time there was a showgirl who wanted to be an opera singer. So she married a millionaire, got him to buy her an opera house, and.. bingo.
Her dream had come true, and mine’s about to as well.
If somebody offered you a steady income to work at whatever you wanted… accountant, sea captain, couch comfort tester… what work would you do?
I’ve always thought that I’d write. Well, now, thanks to thrifty parents, about a hundred years in the most boring career in the universe, and a house sale… I think I’m finally going to get that job.
Like the showgirl, I won’t have earned my stripes through years of plugging away until some perspicacious (or just fed up) editor decides to give me a go. I won’t have struggled through obscurity until finally writing pays. I’m taking the easy way.
Unlike the real deals, I’ll have to prove I can do this, not just to everyone who knows me, but to myself. I’ll have to wear the label of a dilettante for as long as it takes. The title’writer’ has to be earned, I guess.
Still, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time and now I can. So cover your ears, people, I’m about to sing at the top of my lousy voice!