It's days like today when I wonder why I come home to a life of more work, of writing and editing and querying agents who probably don't want to read my work anyway. I had one long week, at my real job, and the week's not over yet. I won't go into it, but let's just say that anything that could go wrong, has gone wrong, and the only thing that has kept me sane is my co-workers. They share my pain and shoulder the load with me.
I'm so tired, but more of my real life. I have dreams sometimes of being able to write for a living, of being able to support myself from something I love doing. Yes, the publishing part of writing is stressful, but the writing part is blissful, while my nine-to-whenever job these days is anything but.
In one of David Morrell's classes, he spoke about how writers are odd, that a writer must love being alone for long hours a day, every day, and that most people--normal people--would find it a horrific existence. To me, it sounds heavenly, especially right now.
The older I get, the less I like people. I've gotten to the point where I get claustrophobic in crowds. And my tolerance for corporate BS, has gotten down into the nano-range. So what is the problem-to-symptom relationship? Am I getting better at writing because I'm becoming a recluse, or am I becoming a recluse because I love writing? I know that I am in my element, sitting here in my Granny's rocker with my laptop, and two furry felines alway nearby, always watching over me.
So, you see, not getting published isn't an option. Even if it only gets me a year or two closer to retirement, it is worth the stress of the publishing process.