My new French Painter friend sells his work. Sometimes he gets up me about selling mine.
“This is fantasteeec, you should sell theees.”
I feel like money puts pressure on things, to me. While I live in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the world, and make a lot more money than I actually need… it’s pressure. Nothing I can’t address with a good gym romp, some meditation, the puppies and well, writing – but, alas, it’s still there.
I never want “I need to get paid for this” to cross my mind when I’m writing creatively. I have a lot of respect for people who get way more money than me spinning words, I feel like a lot of those people might relate with me about this is some ways.
While I’m sure it is satisfying to have fans give you money to be down with your art, currency exchange has become such a hideous aspect of Earth that I really try to avoid it in any way possible.
Basically, money ruins everything.
In another news, as I write this – some creepy guy in the highrise across 2nd Avenue from me is directly facing my way in an oddly lit room. I’m going to go write a story about him.
Truth be told, I’d really rather be sleeping at half to one am on a Sunday. I guess that wasn’t in the cards tonight.
Also, I leave for vacation this coming Saturday and I cannot bloody wait.