You know how some people have to write? Or claim they do? Well, that need is being sorely tested by my job. Up at six, an hour at the gym, eight draining hours of running the circus that is a middle school class, only to stagger home exhausted, bleary eyed and wanting to do nothing more than collapse in bed with a bottle of wine and pass out. I’ve got a list of stories I want to write, a novel to revise, an agent to find, and all I want to do is put my PJ’s on and watch Twin Peaks.
Cor blimey. Who was that famous author that worked in the mines and wrote his first novel by candle light during the six hours allotted to him for sleep? That man is my hero. It’s only 7.30, going on quarter to eleven, and my burning need to write has been replaced by a violent desire to engulf my head in my pillow and drown drown drown in feathery darkness.