I am good at very few things. Very few things, anyway, that one can get paid for. I can be charming. I have a relatively nice singing voice, and have no problem telling humorous tales or singing ditties for an audience. I can sketch pleasant renderings of people or landscapes. I am a consummate doodler. I can cook, sort of, and I can bake (usually). Oh, and I can write.
Basically, I would be a good hostess. I am excellent wife material. Add a few harp lessons, and I would have been in high demand in the nineteenth century.
I am, however, helpless when it comes to office work. I am qualified only to be an editor or a copyeditor, and I hate editing and copyediting. Above and beyond my hatred of editing, I deeply, deeply loathe offices. The fluorescent lighting, the bad coffee, the squeaking door of the ladies’ room—I’m breaking out in hives even thinking about it. I find nothing as depressing as sitting in a cubicle. I know, I know, it’s no one’s idea of heaven. And I don’t want to sound like a big ol’ crybaby, but that’s exactly what I am. I really can’t do it. I spent almost every day at my last job weeping at my desk or sniffling in the bathroom stall or choking back tears on my way to the bad Thai place down the street. I racked up sick days and came in late and “worked from home” and took long lunches and missed deadlines and practically begged them to fire me. Finally I managed to get out by first getting myself knocked up and then developing an agonizing array of repetitive stress injuries. It’s not a strategy I would recommend.
Anyway, then I had this kid, and decided, for lack of any better ideas, to stay at home. This is a life that works for me and makes me happy; I would not go back to office life for anything. My time is my own (when it's not hijacked by Henry's latest Star Wars fantasy) and when the child is away or asleep I can do some freelance writing, and work on Big Secret Projects that might someday result in some money.
That said, I’m not making enough money—we’re not making enough money—and changes have to be made.
For a time I seriously contemplated quitting the blog, as it was a drain on my free time, which is the only time I have to generate any sort of income. Then I realized how much this site means to me. Quitting wasn’t –and isn’t—an option. But because I have to prioritize the projects that pay (alliteration!), Finslippy often falls by the wayside, and then I get grumpy emails from you. And you know I don’t ever want to see you grumpy.
All of this is my incredibly roundabout way of saying that I am going to make more of a commitment to Finslippy in the coming months, and along with this increased commitment, you will see an increased number of ads. I will try not to make them overly obtrusive, but I know that no matter what, some of you will find them so. It’s not possible to make everyone happy. And the bottom line is, there’s nothing better than getting paid to do something you love.
I hope my ads don’t make you too grumpy. But then, if your grumpiness is all I have to suffer in order to keep basic cable, then I’ll have to live with it.