The majority of my writing these days is commission work, with clients bombarding me with article requests and content editing. It's paying the bills (not all of them, but more than you would think), but it is so stale at times.
At the end of the day I'm so drained from cranking out a few dozen articles that I have no energy to work on my own fiction. I suppose that's a great problem to have these days, what with people barely scraping by and all.
I'm a copywriter by trade, so it's not like I don't want this. I used to sit in my studio at Forever Broadcasting and dream of the day when I could do nothing but freelance work like this all day long. I'm pretty much there these days...and it tastes like sour grapes.
I do love me some sour grapes, though.
The bittersweet after effects of so much freelance work are daunting. Yes, I'm doing precisely what I set out to do, but now I can't get a short story finished to save my life. And poor Brandon Wilt, who has provided with me intensely amazing artwork (interior and exterior) for several projects, is left with only one set of eyes to look at his detailed masterpieces: my own.
My inability to get shit finalized and sold is grating on my nerves, but the money that rolls in every month from commercial work paid for Christmas. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. A catch-22, if you will.
I almost feel like issuing a challenge. Give me an idea for a fiction piece and I'll get that thing completed, slam-bam-thank-you-man
The furious fiction writing, work for hire, and audio production of D. C. Golightly. Featuring midnight manhunters, robotic secret agents, starship constables, and whatever else crops up from beneath the pages.
