i have a day job right now. i work in a very lowly post at an art museum.
when writers have day jobs, they are even harder to live with.
here is what the housekeeping becomes with two jobs.
i don’t know what those sunglasses are doing there, or how they got there. are they mine? i hope they’re mine. how long have they been there?
i live in a cloud of clothes and cat hair.
this sink has been clogged and slow for weeks. sometimes i pour bleach down it and it works for half a day.
that was two days’ remains of dinner. heat and eat.
where the heck did all those dishes come from?
my little houseguests, imprisoned here, continually plot their escape, because the only thing harder to live with than a writer is a writer with a day job.
please, buy my books. do it for the kitties that have nowhere else to go. they must live with my work-induced sub-par housekeeping.