Realistically

When I was in Southern Alberta for the book award brouhaha, there were two comments made to me that keep kicking around in my brain. One was, "You had better get going and write another book. You don't want to be a 'Has Been'". The other, after I won the award, "Now you can justify all the time and effort. You've got talent, a published book, and affirmation."

hmmm...
Kind of a crazy mix, I reckon.

Seems like I spend a lot of time trying to justify the time I spend writing - all caught up in that boring North American social disease of product driven action - always living outside of the value of process. I pretty much hate that line of thinking.
But hey, let's not pretend I can live in an idealistic version of artistry all self-assured and courageous. I ain't that good. I need permission. I hate it, but it's true. I have a daughter to feed, bills to pay, nakedness to clothe - even with a published book, even with it winning an award, even with all the positive feedback on my other stuff, I still feel as if asking for a babysitter so I can write is selfish and extravagant.

Maybe it is.
Maybe extravagance is underrated.
Maybe I should crack this old bottle of perfume and damn the torpedoes.
Because really, his feet must be getting tired, all dusty and worn as they are, and my hair is perfect for wiping.