This morning, like every morning, I woke early and climbed out of bed. Since its the weekend, I was the first one up and I had to wait for the coffee to brew, so I scrolled through my phone.
But the whole time, in the back of my mind, I was thinking, I should be writing. I need to get writing.
Coffee finally in hand, I made my way to my upstairs office, tiptoeing so as not to wake anybody and be interrupted. I’d already scanned my email (nothing of any importance) so I got right to writing. I’m in a bit of a re-organizing lull in my current WIP, so I was doing some maintenance work on the novel.
But the whole time I was thinking, I should be actually writing. I should be finishing the next chapter. I should be making forward progress.
This is the constant passion that impels me forward, and these are the thoughts that are never far from my mind. They are somewhat two-fold; a sense of urgency to complete things, but also a burning desire to be wrapped up in my own story world.
Barely a day goes by when I’m not thinking in some way about my writing.
And this morning the thought occurred, what would my life be like if I weren’t a writer?
What would my life be like if I didn’t wake every morning consumed with the thought that I needed to get to work?
What would my life be like if I didn’t have this propulsion to carry me through every day?
What would my life be like if I had a 9-to-5 job that I set aside upon returning home?
What would my life be like if I didn’t have this passion?
I can’t even imagine it. Can you? And furthermore, I don’t want to imagine it. Do you?