Monday, November 18, 2013

The Frantic Crashing of Cymbals

Monday – Entry 40:

My freelance writing work is taking away from my writing time, and yet it pays so little compared to my expenses. I’m getting frustrated. If I wasn’t disabled, if I was perfect, if I was a massive writing machine these would not be obstacles for me, but they are.

I appreciate the work, and the money, however. I’m not complaining. In fact, I wish there was more of it because one of my clients has run out of work for me, but I am concerned. I need to do better with my time if I want to get this first book of mine published. I’m very proud of it. I truly am. However, I don’t spend enough time on it because it doesn’t pay—yet. (Yet my opposition to writing for free doesn’t extend to journal writing or blogging. Hmm, hypocrisy…)

What I think is funny is that I rarely factor in my depression or ticking disorder when organizing my time. All I focus on is managing my ADHD. Certainly, ADHD needs to be managed. I’m a single dad on a fixed income. I have to be creative financially and eke out any extra cash that I can. The government doesn't care that a catalytic converter is going out on my minivan and it will cost hundreds to repair, or that Christmas is around the corner, or that I have expenses not included in their calculations. Time is precious and I can’t waste it on distractions or lack of focus. If I was a single guy, I'd live out of a cardboard box and write at an Internet café, but I am a single dad and I need to provide for my girls, so I swallow my pride and sign up for the subsidies. However, all extra income I make is reported and then taken away from the subsidies—even eBay sales—so I am weary of this lifestyle and wish that I could manage all my disabilities with ease, write what I want, get paid handsomely for it, and be free of the subsidies.

Getting there is the trick, though, isn’t it?

So I’ve recorded my frustrations here to give them voice and set them free. If I want my book done by Thanksgiving I cannot let Depression get a foothold again, even though it plays like a deep, thrumming bass note under my life. Consider this entry the frantic crashing of cymbals to the tense symphony of my life. By the time you read this I will have already moved on.


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