Three stories ran into me today, but I had to let them go. I had to be a framer, meeting deadlines, making money–something that’s not all that important yet necessary, I suppose. And more, responsibility to the client who expects the best from me.
But most are understanding, have always encouraged both my schooling and my love of written words. They have stories too, I’m sure, and wish that they could write them. I see the glaze, the faraway look, the touch of envy of my freedom to be able to do what I want to do. They’re dressed in business suits and dresses, must wait for weekends to get into jeans.
I am lucky, I suppose, and should be grateful for the way I live my life. I am. I do not mind compromising on a larger house, and never was a traveler so I do not miss vacations. I can work until midnight or I can close the shop if I need to do something else that’s more important, like the writers conference next week. I’ll make it up on the weekend, and pull a Saturday night and Sunday production number. And if I want, I’ll stop between nailing corners together and write a story.
Yes, I guess I’m lucky after all.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology