Last week my writer's block finally decided that it was done sucking my dick and my ability to form sentences returned. Since then, I've found a plot line for my novel, killed a fuck tonne of darlings and realized that I need to get my finger out of my ass and actually send proposals for freelance work if I'm ever going to get hired.
The life of a creative is not that of a prostitute, I can't just stand around saying I'm a writer and hope the work will come to me, I have to go out and get it.
This morning, however, I've realised that, along with being cripplingly insecure, I am also a class a procrastinator. For years I've blamed my self-esteem on the fact that I never manage to apply for any writing work, which is partly true, but it's also to do with the fact that I never get off my ass and do it. There is no physical way of getting what you want without putting the effort in. Life doesn't work like that.
Last week, I received an email saying that the agency I've been writing for for the past two years was changing their working model. They would no longer be taking external work from freelancers and instead would be producing all of their copy in house. Meaning my very last paid writing gig was finally gone.
*Weeps internally for my bank balance*
Whereas previously I may have taken this to heart, instead I am using this as an opportunity to force myself to put my writing out their once more and actually find some new work. I need to be stimulated in order to keep my inspiration flowing, and nothing forces you to get on with your work more than an imposing deadline.
This week I have two more days off and have decided to spend said days getting my ass in gear and applying for as many freelance positions as I can, determined to actually find someone to employ me.
That and do my laundry. I'm running out of clean pants.