No, I never wanted to join the circus or perform, but lately, Life has thrown more at me than usual, and I’m trying to write while juggling lots of other things. If something could wrong, it has. But that’s how life is, isn’t it? Murphy’s Law sometimes tops three. I feel like I’ve been buried in things gone wrong, but that’s the main point. Everything that’s gone wrong is fixable. Annoying, a bit scary, but fixable. And I always try to remember that. There are people facing far worse problems than I’m dealing with. Every single one of my problems has the potential for a happy ending. And that’s not true for everyone, is it?
Still, in and around everything, I’ve been writing. Not because I have so much discipline. Not because I’m so creative. But because planting my fanny in a chair and pounding out words makes me HAPPY. It helps me find balance. I can escape whatever’s happening around me for an hour or more. So, yes, writing–for me–is a selfish pleasure.
Sometimes, I ask myself: If I were rich as sin with a husband who adored me (which he does, silly man), more money than I knew what to do with, and no bumps anywhere——would I still be a writer? And I think the answer would still be a big yes. Writing makes me happy. I can’t imagine myself NOT doing it. Is it an addiction? Maybe. But if it is, I don’t care. Could something else take its place? I can’t imagine what it could be. It would have to be something really big that made me even happier. And I don’t see that happening.
I read a blog once that asked the question, “Why do you write?” And I guess the truth is, because if I don’t, I get stir-crazy, restless. I need the outlet. Writing keeps me…me.
So, for all of you writers out there, happy writing!