So I've finally caught up with the 21st Century. Just as I was signing up to Google for this blog space, I get an email from the freelance writing agency I've got myself into. There are hundreds of jobs posted - 'Write My Webpage!' 'Rewrite these product reviews by Saturday!' - and I have written proposals for five of them. As a newbie in the agency, not many clients will give me a chance. It's like I'm a chipmunk amongst a crowd of bears, all of us calling "Pick me! Pick me!" to whoever's hiring.
But finally I get this email, to rewrite ten articles by Saturday, and it's my big chance to get a foot in the door and improve my agency rating from zero to some small but significant figure. So that's cool. And I was just in the process of signing up to this my first blog. But just then my wristwatch beeps, reminding me to go down the street to pick up my children from school. It's my turn today, since my wife is out at the university today. So my professional destiny hangs in the balance while I wander down the road, through the trees, wave to the crossing guards and find my boys.
I think that a few months ago I may have shrunk from the very idea of becoming a writer-for-hire like this. Writing is an art, a craft, a calling. For me, it's about passing on whatever light and life has fallen into my lap, telling the stories of people I've met, spinning yarns that might cause a reader somewhere to smile, or look at life differently.
But for now, it's nose to the grindstone. Maybe the young Rembrandt had to paint fences some days to earn his keep.
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