If I were another kind of writer…

I’ve been working pretty hard on various projects recently, although never as hard as the little squeaky bastard in my head thinks I should, and I have to say that I’m pretty sick of it.

I’m not one of those people who ‘just love’ writing, who sit down at their desk excited to dive in and get lost in some kind of word-induced trance. Nope, I’m the other kind; the kind who gets all angsty, who can only write a few hundred words at a time and who spends half her time trying to get away from them.

Sometimes, being the way I am, I think that I’m not really suited to the writer’s life (what did I know when I was six and decided that’s what I wanted anyway?), but the real kicker is that whenever I’m not writing – I feel guilty. Do you think that’d ease off if I stopped? Could I even stop?

Writing for me is like the bad boy you suspect you should get away from, but who you let slip under the covers every night anyway. It’s the cigarettes you know are disgusting, but that have somehow become tied in with a cool and glamorous version of yourself you want to believe in. It’s something where there are no last chances, just harder hills to climb.

Which kind of writer are you? Do you ever wish you could hang up your pencil? Or are you always glad it’s there?