I've been thinking a lot lately about what it'd be like to be a full-time writer. Well, I guess I am. But I mean a full-time writer of things I want to write. Not things I've been assigned. Not packaging copy or scripts for instructional videos. And I've been thinking about how liberating it would be, and then how overwhelming too. Liberating because no one's telling you what to write, but overwhelming because there's a looming expectation for greatness, and all the while no one's giving you a paycheck every two weeks, telling you that you're doing a fine job and "keep up the good work." No, that comes much later, if at all. (Big "if" there.) After you've somehow clawed your way through the mazes and caverns and caves and abysses and jungles and deserts and filled-to-the-rafters-closets of your mind and put it on paper and bound it together and given it to the cruel world to decide your worth and your paycheck and your fate (in that order).
I don't know if the financial straight jacket is the scariest part of being a full-time writer, or the judgment. From everyone. However unqualified or narrow-minded. Or, perhaps worse, the well-qualified and open-minded.
As it is, I have no plans to quit my day job to write the next Great American Novel. I might try to write it after 5 p.m. though, or at least write a melodramatic adventure book that teenagers and middle-aged women will love. That would be fun too.