I’m a firm believer in doing what makes you happy. Everything I do, from work to play, need to benefit me in some way. The good need to outweigh the bad, which is why I go to the dentist or go to work even with a terrible headache. Or cook when I’m tired.
But then there is the curious case of writing. Writing, oh man, writing is within this way of thinking ruining my life. Writing is a source of stress, anxiety, guilt, tears and fights between me and my fiancee. There are good things too, joy, pride, a sense of accomplishment. But if I didn’t have the absolute compulsion to write, I should within my philosophy, feel pressured to stop. Writing makes me happy, but it also makes me miserable.
I just couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I’ve always been writing and I *am* always writing. I can come home from work at five o’clock in the afternoon and feel like getting at least 1000 words done before I can sleep. I can write among people, in the car, on the bus, outside, inside, in the morning and in the night. By hand, on my laptop or lately on my phone. I’m a writer and that’s something that was chosen for me. Not something I chose for myself.
And that’s what writing is to me. It’s not just something I do for fun, or what I hope to do for living in the future. Writing is an integral part of me, it sticks to my body like a second skin and I doubt I will ever be able to stop. And to tell the truth, I don’t ever want to stop either. Sometimes I just need a reminder.