What’s the greatest divide in life? Is it between the dumb and the clever, the rich and the poor, the ugly and the beautiful? All have their points, but in my opinion it’s between those who can make a living doing a thing they love and those who do a job they don’t particularly care for. I don’t believe that anything else comes near deciding whether or not you’ll be consistently happy with your life.
Personally, I have never stopped being delighted by the fact that, from the ages of 17 to 65 – even lying in bed as a newly-minted cripple – I can earn my living by writing. It’s all I ever wanted to do. As the number of working-class women who never went to university yet still made their living as writers is minuscule, I’m aware of how fortunate (and excellent) I’ve been – especially as our once vagabond shoes are increasingly being filled by the dreary spawn of those already in the racket as surely as acting or modelling.
Whatever the actuality, I can’t help thinking that Mr Watt is himself a good part of the problem
Writing always scores high as a dream job; usually second only to pilot and often beating everything from influencer to lawyer.
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