I'm a starving artist, but I intentionally limit my caloric intake to maintain a svelte appearance. My one true career love...writing. I'm essentially a weirdo...looks are deceiving...I'm intelligent, attractive (ok, guys tell me I'm hot, but humility goes much farther), overeducated and desperately frustrated with the work scene. Why aren't there colonies for writers who weren't born with a silver spoon? A petty little thing stands between me and an intense writing career - money. Oh, how ironic and cursed the lot of us are. I'm working on a novel but life keeps intruding, bills keep demanding my indentured servitude. How to overcome, triumph...not to worry...the tale isn't finished yet.