I’m in the middle of my novel now, but have to break off, of course, to make a little money. I shall write an article on Dorothy Wordsworth, and so pay for our new sheets.


I read a post on Tumblr last night by The Paris Review, citing this quote from Ms. Virginia Woolf in a letter to a friend.

Coincidentally, my own writing life mirrors this quote pretty perfectly these days. Progress on my novel has slowed to a crawl (just 2.5 excruciating chapters to go!), while my paying, freelance work has picked up to a furious pace.

I’m not complaining, by any means. After all, one is almost always in need of a little pocket change for new sheets. But I do find myself grateful that these shifts in my writing life tend to come in seasons and go away again just about as reliably. One type of writing energizes and fills me up. The other draws my last bit of strength by the end of each day.

It’s all a delicate balance act, I suppose. Isn’t everything?

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