Because I have experience in it, and because it is relatively easy to get into, this will most likely mean small town journalism. While I enjoyed being a news reporter, the profession is not unlike face painting--even if you are one of those rare artisans who can create a masterpiece in moments, your product is only meant to last a day before the next sticky-faced brat plops down and demands The Arnolfini Portrait.
Freelancing seems a good match for me because I write the way other people doodle. There are interesting sentences saved as text message drafts on my phone, clever quotes written on the backs of PowerPoint outlines, and morphological oddities jotted down in the breaths between phone calls (my favorite is "ether to get her together", which is an almost beautiful bit of heteronymic palilalia).
The pay will be insulting, but it will be money. Delicious money.
So I must get back in the practice of writing, writing everyday. And I must improve.
But, until then, I will just keep doodling.
Seated across from Jonathan Bell was a man they called Clocktower, for his face was expressionless and his hands never stopped moving. He was dressed in a well-kept but faded black suit with thin lapels, and Jon suspected that it was a "slab tux", a suit rented out by mortuaries to families who cannot afford to dress their dead.
As Clocktower's hands danced across the table, up his string tie, through his thinning white hair and back again, Jon listened for the gentle tearing of the Velcro seams that made dressing such rigid customers manageable. He breathed deep, straining for a hint of formaldehyde, and Clocktower's right hand cut quick cruzaras across the tabletop before leaping gracefully in the air and clicking its heels.
Jon blinked, and Clocktower snapped his fingers again.