I live a very isolated life, partly because I write better when immersed in my own little world, partly because of a decade of ME/CFS, but even when the only people I meet are online there are still so many of them telling me what I SHOULD be doing.
Over the past 24 hours I’ve been locked in this battle with a very good sales letter that’s made me think I should become a copywriter and make the kind of fabulous money that could launch my career as a sci-fi & fan historical & archaeological mystery romance writer (couldn’t figure out which genre so I cross them all 🙂 ) into the stratosphere.
Right brain was bullying me, saying “It’s the responsible thing to do! You’ll manage to keep writing your novels with clever manipulation of time!” while left brain, huddling in a corner, was trying to get a word in sideways in its diminutive voice, “but don’t you need that time for the creative process, and the other parts of life that you already don’t handle so well?”
And now? The tiny, easily trampled flower of my creativity says NO to the cyber bullies of the email inbox. Now I remember that I’m NOT a copywriter! I’m a novelist – penniless, yes, but a novelist no less.