Where would you be comfortable?

Comfort, especially as a writer, is a funny thing.

Lots of people say that they’d be comfortable earning lots of money, and doing the things they love.  Others are sure it’s not about the money, but want to share something with the world.
But how much of that is about actual comfort, and how much is expectation based on perception of success?

I used to think that writing was the be all and end all in my life – slowly though, other things have crept in – I’m learning lingustics which is language in one of it’s purest forms, because forensic linguistics is about the best thing I can think of doing with my life.  But I don’t write nearly as much (for myself) as I’d like.  I’ve cut back on my blogging – I’m not sure where my world actually *is* any more.  I love writing to death, but at the end of the day, beyond uni, I don’t write.  I never thought there’d be a day where I said I hadn’t written something beyond emails, but there are now whole groups of days when I don’t write.  I’m too bone tired – too much on.  And I don’t think I wrote nearly enough last year for Uni either….
I don’t read nearly as much as I used to either – but part of that, I think , is because I’ve put my ereader down *somewhere* and I can’t find it.   Some of it is just because again, there’s no time in the day.

One of the biggies is that as a family, I need to contribute meaningfully – up until recently, we recieved enough funding from the University to just about manage that ‘meaningful’ support – but this last year saw them cut it back, again, which means I either have to find extra funds or cut back again – which isn’t a pleasant prospect to be honest.  So money has an aspect in my comfort, because without it, unfortunately, I can’t AFFORD to write.  But that makes me question whether I’ve got the right perspective on writing anyway.  I can still write, just not as often – but for me, without that be a comfort, or would that cause more harm than it prevents?  I mean, I used to tell people that if I didn’t write, I’d go mad.  And in some ways it’s true. I don’t write and the thought of creating worlds torments me, but it’s a dull itch rather than an all consuming fire.

What are your thoughts?  Where’s comfort for you, and what conditions do you have on it?

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