A full-time, honest to God, professional writer, I mean. I’ve wanted it since I was a kid, but the reason – had anyone asked – would have been vague.
‘So I can write for as long as I want and make a living at it!’
Which is answering the question with the question, isn’t it? Stupid younger me.
Daydreaming the other day, I wondered what life might actually be like, day-to-day, if I could do this for a living. And I came up with this marvellous equation:
Life(writer) = Life(current) – Work(9hrs/day) + Writing(4hrs/day) + FreeTime(5hrs/day)
Gadzooks! (Look that one up, if you’re not British. Splendid word. Really fantabulous.)
I already write an hour a day. It’s a scientific fact that no-one should write for more than five per day, or you risk brainmelt. (I’ve misplaced my copy of the study that proved this, but you can Google it.)
Which leaves me with the ineluctable conclusion that being a professional writer would give me five hours more leisure time EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
Think of all the books I could read. The recipes I could attempt. The wine I could drink.
Oh God, the wine I would drink. Sorry, liver. Hello, gout.