Why Am I Doing This

Writing is a lonely pursuit.  It's one where I get to be God, creating worlds and people, dictating their every move, their every action, whether they live or die, scratch their watch or wind their ass.  Often, I work fourteen or more hours in a day, writing feverishly, sometimes in a half-dozen manuscripts at once.  It's not unheard-of for me to churn out ten thousand words in a day when my muses drag me deeply into The Zone.  To see me, you'd think I'm navel-gazing or stoned on some really good drugs.  But the fact of the matter is that I'm off in another world, being God, and at most, my body is a placeholder in this world while my mind is off in another.

But why?  It's not the money.  Sure, I sell books and make a bit of jingle from the publishing, but few of us are able to make a living from it, although I'm trying.  I've told people I write because it's a passion, and publish because I'm a whore.  It sounds funny, but it's true.  Yes, I want to make a living from doing this, but the flat fact of the matter is, even with no market at all or ability to publish, still I would write.  It's an addiction.  But I suppose it's harmless.  Thus far I haven't pawned my TV for ten bucks to support my habit, right?

So anyway, maybe this gives you a slight bit of insight into my world, into me.  And with that, I'll return you to your regular perversities, interrupted in progress.

LXB