After my last outing at Twilight Market, I tidied up my stock and brought some to Sue Bateup’s Weaver’s Gallery, (I must work on that post), while others sat in a pile on the floor of my living room.
Having received Martin’s email, I was recalling some of the earlier talks we had, when I didn’t have an outlet but was ready to sell my work. And as I was savoring the arrival of Martin's email, I walked into the living room and I burst out laughing.
Even if I sell every piece I weave, I will never be able to survive on this income, because I am a slow weaver. I made a quick calculation, and figured the utmost best I can ever hope for is an annual sales of about Ben's one month's pay. Tops! If I dither around like I do, it’s likely to be a lot less. And that’s sales, not profit.
So, Ben, I'm retracting my earlier promise; I’m sorry but you will never become a weaver’s pimp.