The mornings sneak in with impatient jabbing at my eyelids. I turn over and clench them tight, but the damage is done. I'm awake. Time to go to work.
I stare up at the ceiling. The shadows remind me of moments in a story I'm working on. Sometimes they make me smile, while other times I'm afraid to crawl out of bed. But crawl I must.
I wish I could stay home. There's so much work to do. There's always so much work. A novel to write, a screenplay to rewrite, a short story to edit, submissions to make, proposals to write, reading, reading, reading. But this isn't a choice yet. I still pay my bills with a job that has nothing to do with writing. As I earn my MFA, I know this will all change, one way or another. Slowly, one step at a time (how's that for a cliche), I'm getting there.
I'll get home just before the sun sets and I'll be able to work. The trouble I have most of the time is figuring out which project to tackle first. I got so overwhelmed with classwork and keeping my head above the raging waters, that I let the creativity muscle slip. Finally I'm writing fresh, new stories. It's invigorating but at the same time it requires patience and diligence. Every muscle learns and this one is no different. Writing every day is the only way to succeed. Writing and reading.
On my way. Talk soon.
G.