Economic Recession. Depression. Yes. I don’t feel recessed. I feel depressed. People keep knocking on my mailbox asking for their money and I’m scrounging around trying to figure out from where my next dollar will be found. Ideas float around in my head all day. And some of them even take flight. My kids’ drama workshop, for instance, is a fantastic idea that has such possibilities, almost none of which are flourishing. I feel like I’ve built the baseball field and there’s no line of cars snaking down the highway into the sunset. Sure, I have a solid handful of interested parties, but only a few come forward with their money.
Doing fundraisers for the historical society is no better. We usually get about 500 people at our yearly event, and this year we only got 69. Yup. 69. We’re screwed.
So shall I make art and sell it at art festivals? Shall I write a novel and see if I can get it picked up? Or a children’s book? Shall I sell antiques from around the house on ebay? Or shall I ditch it all and sell myself to corporate America? Like they’d want me.
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