I had no choice but to move on.  Writing waits for no one, man or women.  It is a selfish craft that demands attention and will only be ignored for a short time before the muse hides in ever more secretive places.  Writing is a passion and an obsession at times.  It rules the day with come hither promises of discovering a perfect phrase hidden among the rubble of my musings.

Today I wrote some, but I also searched for outlets and places to gently deliver my babies.  I am a published, freelance, non-fiction writer.  I’m know about SEO and keywords and turning boring content with too much repetition into a semi-lively read.  Beneath the surface of needs lies wants.  The yearning to write creative fiction simmers slowly and bubbles over, but the sensible me remembers that life requires more than feeding one’s soul. 

“Intellectual freedom depends on material things.  Poetry depends upon intellectual freedom, and women have always been poor, not for two hundred years, but from the beginning of time…That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one’s own.”
                                                                         –Virginia Woolf  A Room of One’s Own 1929