WHEN

I’ve dispensed with those things that involve collaboration, others. How about what I can do alone?

What do people do? Make an album in the woods, Bron-yr-Aur, Bon Iver. I could. Don’t really want to. Not my medium of choice. Make something with a frame around it: I’m a blacksmith, a wood-turner, I’ve made plenty of stuff that’ll be really almost sort of help in case of zombocalypse. DIYing the things you need is different than using the same skills to make pretty shit until your livingroom looks like a renfair came all over it. It’s just not hard enough. And it sure isn’t the right kind of hard.

What’s harder? What am I good at? What do I like doing? What might actually come to something?

I am a writer. That seems the best option, always has. Write another novel. Or short stories and try to sell them. A novel, edited, and try to get it agented or just straight published. If I sell a manuscript to a small press for five grand a two free copies, I’ll have paid for a year’s worth of groceries and then some. And there’s always the chance I might make more. Or justify an advance… the potential for more… a career.

It is the best I have ever come up with. If I have four months with nothing at all to do, that is what I will do. And reasonably so.

And I could do it much the same, while biking too.

If I bike eight hours a day, that’s still *eight hours* left of wakefulness each day. That’s as much as I usually spend writing. It will impact me not much at all.

If I’m sitting at home, I’ll be out riding my bike several hours a day. This way I’ll ride more, and see more. And write not much the less for it. Perhaps even write more, for just these reasons. Plus I’ll be Doing Something. And more besides.

If I were to write something related to the trip I was on, that might be an excellent way to get a foot in the door. (Hell, I’ve wanted to write such a story for several months. The only reason I haven’t is the same one given by the starving man why he doesn’t write about a feast.) But that’s not a necessity. I could write whatever the hell I wanted. A roof over my head or now: my imagination is mine.

And – hell – if I don’t write a single word, I’ll have *biked*.

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