Despite my recent successes at publication I am not yet making a living out of writing. I know this will come as a surprise to you, but it is the sad truth. Perhaps if I could live on a handful of grain a day and never leave my den I would be ok, but unfortunately I can't. My family have been very supportive and I thank them for helping me out in so many ways. However, it has come to the stage where I can no longer make ends meet and it kills me to ask for handouts all the time. I know I am a sponge, but I don't like to be reminded of it daily. So I have come to the realisation that I must now go looking for a nine to five job. It makes me feel such a failure. I wanted to give this a chance for five years and I'm only a little over two. I've done part time work before to help keep me going, but doing bits here and there isn't going to cut it any more. I feel such a failure. I feel I am turning my back on everything I have spent the last two years working on. I feel I am taking huge steps backwards in my life and I hate it. If this was a sound file rather than text I would be screaming at this stage. It isn't the fact that I have to look for a job that ties knots of frustration and dread in my stomach. It's more the fact that earlier this year I thought I would be well on the road by now. Not rolling in money, but broadening my horizons and doing what I loved. Instead it is like I have entered a time warp and gone back eight years, except with more financial commitments. I can't believe I have done this to myself. Scrolling through lists of jobs on the Internet - most of them denied to me because of my lack of experience and qualifications - is like digging the grave for my last shred of hope. Of course I can write and work nine to five at the same time. Everyone must make money to make ends meet. I just can't get over the enormous pit of despair I've dug for myself at the thought of writing not being my 'job' anymore.