Was listening to Norma Waterson's hard hitting 'God loves a Drunk' in my break-from-words (I allow myself to stop when I run dry - provided I have hit my 200 words since last time I stopped. I then play a game of Freecell and listen to a song. One of each. Or make coffee. Or have a wee. Choose, Bezonian (I AM more reasonable if I've done well that day. I hate my boss. He spies on me. Working for yourself has downsides)
"Does clerking and wage-slaving bring you God's love?"
"I pity you worms, with your semi's and pensions, if you that'll get you to the kingdom above."
I love the land. I love the water. I love working with both. Feeling myself a part of both, tied with blood to the earth and bound with salty chains of sea. The semi would kill me quite fast. The pension... yeah well. Not happening for writers, who have always been the those who prefered doing what they loved than getting properly paid for it (one of my publishers had a rant for my benefit about how they were struggling to survive... I didn't ask how if they and retail struggle on 92% of the income, they think those on the rest do. It's new to them.) I must admit I'm not rushing to be put out to pasture. Let me work until I die. I don't love it sometimes, but it's not precisely wage-slaving. More like plain slaving... Sometimes I have to 'clerk' though.
Returning to clerking...
Forever and ever, Amen