About two years ago I came to a cross road in my life. I took a good look at the signs—having known it was coming for a while—tweaked my mouth to the side, and plopped down. I’ve been camping out there since.
I have the ability. My life is set up in a way that I can’t go on like this forever, but I don’t have to change now. I don’t really want to do anything else. Why? I just want to write.
I don’t need things. I need a computer. To write. I need paper. To print. I need food. To live. So I can write. I need warmth. Because I have poor circulation. If I have a roof, moderate nourishment, and the ability to write, I’m happy.
Okay, so admittedly there’s a cat in there too.
I don’t always feel that way. Sometimes I want shoes or Dungeons and Dragons models. Every once in a while I emerge from my room, blinking into the light, and going, “Man, I wish I had some friends.”
But those are fleeting feelings.
I like my job. I like having my car paid off. I like being able to not work constantly to rent a room that I can’t afford. I want time off. So I can write.
I don’t play video games anymore. The television’s only on if I have my laptop in front of me. I still listen to music. I dance while listening to music. I dance while listening to music so I can act out fictional scenes in my head. Fictional scenes that I plan on writing later.
Even when I am reading “52 Images That Weren’t Clever in Context,” and my mother’s Facebook, and what shoes Stephenie Meyer wears, I can’t wait until I’m done so I can get back to writing.
I don’t sleep well the nights I haven’t written anything. The days I do, I think I can conquer the world. I might even do my laundry.
Or maybe I’ll just write more.
Going to work makes me write more. When I’m there, I just want to get off so I can write something. I crave the cookie more when I’m on a diet.
I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t want a real job. I just want to write. All the time. Everyday. No interruptions.
Is that so much to ask?