I’m leaning in to the commercial projects. There’s an artist inside of me, somewhere, screaming, but every time a bill comes due the accountant in me tells her to shut up.

That’s a different post, for a different time.

I’ve known for some time that it was entirely possible for people to work, and make a living, on self-publishing, especially within certain genres. I don’t think I knew how easy it was. Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s been months of work on one project, on top of years of work on myself.

But it’s done. It will be out there in a few days, come what may, and I… I don’t feel anything. Tired. A bit gassy. Not the numbness of anhedonia but the contentment of everything just sort of chugging along the way I suppose it ought to.

I thought I’d feel different. I should have done it differently. I should have waited? For what, I wonder. For it to be better. For me to be better. How long I’ve let my self-esteem be determined by other people…

I want to do it again. Not tonight. Tomorrow. I want to rest, and wake with the sun, and spend the hours of my life with the people that I love, or the people that I imagine. I did it. I want to do it again.

Doesn’t that make one a writer?

BH ❤