Teh Gypsy

I write, and think, and obsess a lot, about how to reconcile artist with wife. Writer with functioning adult, one with bills to pay and hours to work. How do you make time for something as superfluous as artistic expression when you’re twenty-seven and broke? And isn’t writing the worst of life the same as giving in to it? How do you even acknowledge that life’s nuances sometimes send you plummeting into fear and insecurity, without it somehow taking away from the genuinely happy life you’ve made for yourself? Can you even have both? Doesn’t being happy and fulfilled mean that the writer I want to be fundamentally cannot exist anymore? Wasn’t that a trade I willingly made?

It’s not like it was, when the responsibilities were less, and I had a round table of  twenty-somethings passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth and turning phrases until morning came…

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