I've been writing like a demon today. A sick demon with a snotty nose and a hacking cough, but a demon nonetheless. I called in sick (and I really was too sick to be in an office - people hate it when you cough and sneeze all over them in a meeting) and stayed home. I woke up just long enough to push my family out the door, eat something, take some drugs (of the OTC cold variety, c'mon people) and went back to bed. Until 12:30pm.
Then I did something that makes me almost giddy: I wrote. I wrote about zombies attempting to eat teenagers. And about an alien learning that she has amazing regenerative abilities and can decapitate a zombie with her bare hands. And about a cute boy she finds in the middle of a road. It was great. I loved it. I wish I could do this every day, even if it meant that I had to feel this crappy.
Makes me wonder if what I'm doing with my life is really worth it. Le sigh. It's not like I have much of a choice these days. Gymnastics classes don't pay for themselves, do they? (No, really, do they? Because that would totally change my whole outlook on life.)
It was a great day because today I reminded myself of who I really am: a writer. Sometimes I get so caught up in all the other titles I hold: mom, wife, worker bee, laundress, chauffeur, list keeper, data entry drone, chef, etc. that I forget that part of me.
I am a writer.
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