Why are people so stand-offish? Everyone seems to be gazing over their shoulders. What are they expecting an unwanted grope of their tush . . . And when they aren’t they seem to say that was this time. Why are we so afraid to be friendly? Why are we so afraid of each other?
And people tell me they don’t have time . . . Don’t have time for what, I ask? To be like you, they say. What do you mean like me? Oh, you don’t work . . . Right, I say . . .
I write each day. I walk, twenty-five feet to my office, after having walked the steps to my kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee, then up the stairs to my computer.
I usually always start the same. Go get my email, just like everyone else. Then I clear my work area and plan my day. I like to write early in the morning or whenever I get up . . . You see my day usually ends in the wee hours of the morning, that’s 2:00 or 3:00am.
I’m lucky, I don’t punch a clock . . . And unlucky because at present, I work for free. I’ll put in eighteen hours each and everyday. I don’t get weekends off, I don’t get holidays and on vacations, my computer comes with me. When I’m writing . . . Oh when I’m writing, those rare beautiful times and I write between 1000 and 1500 words a day. And truthfully, I would rather write than breath.
But that’s never the case. You see, life has a way of creeping into my day. My current poetry book sits on my desk, ready for its final edit. It’s a mere 150 pages. Tomorrow or rather today, I’ll have to decide who’s going to print it. And then I get to work on that dreaded marketing plan. But if I don’t do it, I continue to work for free.
My marketing plan includes updating three blogs and a poetry site. And then I have to be creative in enticing traffic to the sites and that’s what takes all my time.
On my credenza sits my novel, somewhere between the final edit and oblivion. You know I used to think 300 pages, was hard to write . . . Actually its easy. And then there’s maybe 20 short stories, and three other novels in different stages. And I’m getting anxious to start another poetry book and write the book about my son and his CANCER.
And like everyone else, the phone rings . . . Only I don’t pick up, because if I did I would only have 20 pages in my novel, and would not be publishing my second poetry book. But when the dogs bark, I have to let them out. When dishes need to be done, I get to do them or the grass needs cutting or the garbage needs to go out. I’m here, it must be my job . . . Unless I get focused and then nothing interferes with the project I’m working on and those times come and everything is blocked out. I’m just finishing one of those times . . . That’s when I have a big glass of scotch and a Montecristo Cigar, for I just finished another book.
Well maybe, people are aloof because who I am. I’m a poet, a writer of fiction. And people have a way of finding themselves as characters in my books . . . That’s fiction for you. And maybe it’s because I am so forceful . . . Really it’s just a guise because everyone is a critic and a writer has to keep them away. It’s so easy to quit, so much harder to write the next word, the next sentence, chapter or book. So each and everyday I write, no holidays for me and I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything . . . I’m a writer and I’m living my dream.
Dreams Are Yours To Share
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