Personally? I love having a job. Love getting up at 6:40am, love

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Personally? I love having a job. Love getting up at 6:40am, love showering, dressing, having a bite to eat and then I'm through the door. Commuting? Sure it's a drag but that's just part of life. Gotta take the good with the bad. I arrive at work every day at 8:30am, remove my jacket, say hey to my coworkers, sit down; it's time to work. Until 12:30pm I'm fully invested in my work. No time for messing around (boys), no time fro drifting or daydreaming. I head out for lunch and then return. Now the afternoon is a little more difficult to navigate. The morning rush has worn off, I'm a little sleepy after eating, it's kinda difficult but I soldier through, People have it much worse than me and I am just not narcissistic not enough to acknowledge that every freakin' day. I work hard until 5:30pm, at which point I get up, put on jacket, say my goodbyes and head out the door. It takes 40 minutes, often more, to get home. So what? What right have I to complain? Don't like it? Leave it. Come on, kid. This is adult life. So I'm writing a novel. Yes, me. I know, I know, I kinda find it hard to believe too. What's more I want to really make it. I'm talking prizes, professional headshots in sepia, royalties, advances, the whole shebang. But I work full-time, like any mature adult male does, so naturally I only have around 2 or 3 hours or productive time after work each day to knuckle-down (dummies out, kiddos) and focus on my writing. Say I write 100 words. Say I write 50. Who cares? I'm progressing. I'm getting nearer my goal. You want to work part-time and ruin your career chances to focus on your book? Fine. You want to live with mommy and be her little darling writer at the age of 25? Sure, go ahead. It doesn't bother me. Because I know that I, a mature, responsible man (look up the definition, it may be an unfamiliar term to you) have to keep up appearances in addition to writing my debut novel. I may get it finished within a year. It may take a decade? Who cares? I don't. Say I win the Booker aged 40. 50. 60 even. Better than being poor, unwanted and inferior (objectively, if we're going to be honest about this) for the chance of winning the Booker at 30. Seriously guys, cut your hair, find a job, and treat your writing as it really is: a pretty embarrassing and financially futile hobby. It's a past-time. It's a daydream. A wishful thought. Now get back to work!