For many years, I have avoided doing certain things because I feared what might happen if I did.
I’ve never travelled to the UK because I am afraid I would like it so much that I would just stay. I don’t keep Reece’s cups in my house because I’ll eat the whole container in one sitting.
Now that I’ve published my first novel, I don’t want to do anythinge except be a writer. I had a notion that if I ever published a book that it would be like crack. I always feared that I would get a taste of being a “real” writer and want to do nothing else. In the month since The Children of Lot has been out, I found myself longing to do nothing but spend 8 hours per day cloistered in my basement office writing, writing, writing. It is starting to interfer with me doing other things like, work.
I have a thankless, horrible job. It drains the happiness out of me as soon as I step into the place. It bothers me so much, I can’t write even when I have the chance.
Now my desire to run free in the fields of writing is clashing with my soul sucking occupation. It’s like cold air and warm air mixing together. A tornado is going to come. I’m afraid of what it will do.
Sorry for the therapuetic rant.