I find myself some days feeling brittle and uninspired. I still haven’t made it yet as a writer. I am exploring genres and the voices in my head that ache to come out. I feel good about my work. But until these people who share my mind start paying the bills, I have no choice but to press on in my day job.
I like the work. Mostly. It’s not my dream, but few of us will ever see that realized.
Still, I know there are days when I just don’t have it. My juices aren’t flowing, at least in the office. We all have these days. I’m not alone.
I find myself wishing I could unwind the day in the sheets, my bare skin warm under the covers. Listlessly I drag from one coffee break to the next, discretely checking websites and email accounts of which my boss would not approve.
What I need is to write, to put words and delicious acts into motion. I check out early or take my laptop for a long lunch, and I place my fingers on the keys. My lungs fill, and my heart beats faster. The sensual spark comes to life again.
Just letters on a screen, yet so much more in my imagination. My eyes trace through each paragraph I write. I am the whore mother, the maker of this magic, spinning a web that pulls me in ever deeper with each stroke I lay down.
I need this. I need this so damn badly.