I had a moment this week when I had a massive attack of self-doubt. This road I’ve carved out for myself? The one that is paved with zero money but lots of freedom, exorbitant healthcare premiums but time for creativity and midday yoga and writing classes and blathering into the internet’s vacuum? I began wondering what the hell it’s all amounting to. Instead of liberating me, has this road boxed me in? Has it dead-ended?

Feeling low, I looked at job listings online.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t work in-house someplace! I’ve been off-leash for too long, and no one wants a dog that’s been on her own, arguing with chipmunks and fending for herself in the woods. A dog like that chafes against endless meetings and fake nicey-nicey in the halls, but worse, that kind of dog howls at performance reviews and infects the water supply with dissent.

You—whoever “you” are—can’t crate me!

No, I’ve got to stay on my rocky little stretch of road, and keep plugging away at whatever the hell it is that I’m doing, and watch for signs directing me this way or that way. Reassuring? I feel a little bit, sometimes, like a character out of Bottle Rocket -- a combination of Dignan (delusions of grandeur, not-so-brilliant schemes) and Anthony (leading with his heart but fundamentally directionless.) I suppose there are worse things than seeing yourself reflected back to you from Wes Anderson’s vantage point. Nice light, good framing, excellent soundtracks.

TA is busting his ass to keep us afloat, and he assures me it’s ok with him. He doesn’t mind the work he’s doing right now because he’s learning new things, and it’s enabling him to support me and my wild ideas (yoga in paris website, another blog idea, selling my prints online, freelance writing, etc) The ideas are really not that wild but in typical me fashion, I am having trouble “monetizing” them. This is the road block I need help with, the one I’m working on the hardest and because it’s my least favorite, it’s taking the longest.