Every day I think about writing.
I think about it all the time, but getting to it, that’s the rub, isn’t it? My days fill up with the mundane objectives of a middle-class, working-class dude. You know? Wake up. Shower. Teeth. Get to work. Fire up the computer. Drop this off there. Get that over there. Oh yeah, lesson plans! Here come the kids. Teach them. Inspire them. On and on until the end of day and then it’s home, home, home. All the while, my imagination churns up bits of this and that, stories that may or may not ever be told.
But when I am home, really all that matters is family.
How can I sit and stare at a computer screen writing about the truth when all these beautiful little creatures that I helped to create want to do is be with me? I’ve got to put it all aside and wait until dark. Bedtime is go time, but by then I’m spent. None of this is complaint. I guess I just feel bad because I am not unloading my brain on a daily basis. Luckily I’ve got a boss who indulges my artistic side and I can get a few words out every day like that, but the stories in my head, man, I’ve got work to do. I’ve got time off coming up here, soon-ish. Then I’ll have some energy. I’ll let the levy break and the words will pour forth like clowns from a car.