This was written by my daughter Morgan, an aspiring novelist, and it’s powerful. I think I’ll print out a copy to hang in the boot shop to remind me to value my craft and the freedom it gives me.

You love to talk about the job you got,
The perks and corner office that you sought.
But then, you turn and cast your gaze on me,
And ask if writers make a salary.
Through papers, publications, maybe books.
I mutter, glancing down from all your looks,
Of righteous piety and sad disgust,
Like cash and clothes and cars are such a must.
Your suit is neat and tie is tied just so.
But I don’t have a boss or timesheet though.
Or work and making spreadsheets, how you said.
I think if that was me, I’d feel so dead,
Inside my heart. So maybe writing’s nice,
At least my writing’s more than worth its price.