For the past several days a little black and white bird has been attempting to fly through the window at the back of our house. It goes something like this. She lands on a back railing. Flies to the top of the large market umbrella near the window. Then flies at the window, only veering away at the last minute. This pattern continues until she is exhausted, then she leaves, only to return and try again.
I was thinking of her yesterday as I sat waiting for my one on one meeting with the Australian Arts Council Grants officer. The amount of 'established writers' who received grants last year was around 13. Three of those wrote in the YA genre. My chances of getting a grant are minuscule. Making a living by writing for children is reserved for the very few.
Yet at the moment I am like by black and white friend. Caught by the allure of something out of reach. I continue to fly toward it.
I wonder if it's too late to be a brain surgeon...