Work Sucks

This post is brought to you at 5:01 in the AM. There’s a very good reason for that. Well, that’s a lie. There isn’t a very good reason for that. There isn’t even a good reason for that. Just a plain old ordinary reason: work.

Work sucks.

To be a writer isn’t as much a choice to write but a choice of expression that is writing. I’m convinced that writers, if they were not writers, would still be artists nonetheless but by means of a different medium. They would be actors or illustrators or (most likely) comedians. But since they are writers they do not write to write but they write to express, and because of this, they feel (I feel) like they need to write something every day. Just to get it out there. But I also enjoy food when I’m hungry and heat when it’s cold and television when there’s football. I am a man of my luxuries. So I need to work but ahh, there in lies the rub.

I’m (mostly) single with (definitely) no kids and I have (relatively) low bills so I don’t need to work that much to stay alive, and I still have trouble finding time to write. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a writer who is working two jobs with three kids a spouse and an affair (although the affair might be used to help their writing.) Work takes up so much time. I dream constantly of what my writing, and myself as a writer, would become if I didn’t have the strains of a job holding me down.

One day…

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