A Real Job

I went out and got a real job. I leave my home wearing clean pants and go somewhere specific, where I sit at a desk with a computer and do work that other people tell me to do. For doing this, they give me money. This is called a "real job." It has a schedule. A paycheck. Duties. It does not involve talking to imaginary people to create stories, nor does it include my muse. Since I've been working this job, she's been home drinking wine in the back yard. All that sitting around is making her lazy and sunburned. I'm a little worried about her. I'm a little worried about me. After work, my brain is too tired to create anything, so I lounge on the couch with a peanut butter sandwich and watch TV. I need the job. No, I need the paycheck. I need to keep the electricity turned on and unfortunately, the agent said no.

She was very nice about it. She scribbled a handwritten note at the bottom of the agency's "Dear Author..." form letter and told me she enjoyed reading my book but had to pass. She also told me not to give up because the field is "so subjective" and the next agent I send it to will probably snatch it up. My muse was very quiet. Instead of saying "I told you so," she went to the refrigerator, pulled out the bottle of Savignon Blanc kept there for emergencies, poured us both a glass, then walked outside to sun-bathe in the nude. She's been there ever sense.

I went outside and got a job. I'm not giving up, I'm simply trying to pay the bills. The hope that I would sell my book and therefore earn some money to keep writing vanished, at least this year. Until it sells, I need to work at a real job for real money. My muse demands wine, but refuses sunscreen.