Very few people are able to support themselves financially through writing, so it seems to me that writing must be frequently relegated to the spaces real life leaves behind.
When I read Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own back in my teens, a fantasy of mine took shape and solidified. Since then, I have been desperate for a space – both physical and mental – that is mine alone and that I can retire to frequently. Instead, I hide in the bedroom of my shared flat, sit in cafes with snatched moments and stick the headphones in whenever I can.
These days writing is filling up the cracks and gaps in my time quite prolifically, but despite telling myself it doesn’t have to be this way, I always feel as though it’s consigned to the margins. That’s what makes me want to trash the day job, and god do I sometimes want to trash the day job!
But I do sometimes wonder if it’s not always such a bad thing. If by having writing as the thing I’m fighting to find time to do, it gets to be almost a treat. I doubt it would stay that way if I did it 24/7. Or maybe I’d find I enjoyed it even more. Who knows? Not me until I get brave or rich enough to try it!