On Wednesday morning I shall roll over as the sun makes itself known through the curtains and take the first breath of my first day in a new chapter of life. This time, I will be waking up for the dream.
I’m only one of billions who dream of being their own boss, but perhaps only one of thousands stupid enough to try it. The “top kill” of common sense has long failed to plug the writing urge; so the day has finally arrived when I shall walk away from my job as a psychiatric nurse and become some sort of pimp for my pen. The decision has not been taken lightly and I sense a very hard road ahead, but I’m busting to get on it.
My initial plan is to take the next three months of relative financial predictability, thanks to savings and a working wife, to graft for 50 hours a week and get a better idea if the whole project is viable. Come September, I hope to have an answer to the question, “Can I make this writing lark pay?” Between now and then there’s a terrific barrage of creative projects to be executed.
For starters, there’s a list of factual articles I want to write (currently enough for an article a day for a month – and growing). That is the easy bit. Finding markets is going to be a challenge. There’s another twenty eight short chapters to be written of a devotional for men, a stage adaptation of the Book of Revelation for the embryonic Noah’s Nanny Goat Productions, a sci-fi novel to be completed and the quest for a voice and platform for some of my Spoken Word style poetry. Along with a couple of other projects, that should be enough to chew on to begin with, but if it all comes to nothing … there’s always “Plan B” … back to the psychiatric wards …