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Is writing a vocation? A calling? I'm wondering about degrees of commitment and its impact on that awful word, value, in the work. I mean folk who are Sunday writers (as in Sunday painters) are still able to turn out a masterpiece aren't they? It's not about the hours is it? It's a bit like comparing your Dad's attempt at a shed, Bob the Builder and Richard Rogers. It's not an occupation either, or is it? Some turn it into an academic lifetime, but only in terms of secondary writing and teaching. Some make it a hobby. Does one's attitude devalue the poems? Is it about one's view of the task of writing. I mean if I say "it's a hobby for me", is the work diminished? If I say "it's my life's blood", is it enhanced? Is it about application, determination? I know folk who really want to be a writer and scribble everyday but I don't think they'll ever make it. But what do I mean by making it? We're back to value again. Then there's luck. And of course gifts. All of which trouble me. But a proper job? Only if one has a patron I suspect. A kind of fealty. The notions of being properly involved make me wonder about what the rules are . . . who's in and who's out. It's a form of taxonomy all over again. I know I'm serious about writing, but what am I using as markers to determine that? "I get sick if I don't write." (I don't really.) "Nothing is more important." (Rubbish.) "I want to leave something behind me." (Vanity.) "I can't help myself." (I can.) My voice dwindles. Proper. I think I'd rather be improper. And as for the dignity of labour: I don't feel much intrinsic value in grafting. Work is slavery. Being a boss (which is bleeding work) is slavery. Hidden within this is the belief that there is some possibility of liberty. I strongly suspect that one is never free. Some of us, deluded lucky beasts that we are, choose our own cages. The illusion of freedom comes from changing cages. And then death. Proper. C %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%