I am very tired. I did not know how very tired until I woke up enough to feel it. A cold is being passed around the workplace, not a full on I’m-staying-home cold, but the more insipid I’m-feeling-lousy-but-okay-enough kind of miserable. I’m just about over it, I hope. Anyway, the more conscious I grow, the more I feel this overwhelming weariness settling itself over my mind and body. Well, that’s work, and it’s struck me hard; a sort of desperate longing has filled my heart, to live another kind of life. I don’t want to be only just able to scratch out a few paragraphs before rushing out the door every morning. I want the whole morning, I want midday, I want the evening. I want to sit down and spend the whole day working on these phantasies, bringing them to life one word at a time. I want to spend my whole life writing.
Well, that’s the goal, and I’m working toward it. Even work is, in some sense, working for it. Right now, the next step seems to be getting a book cover, which will mean paying for a book cover once I find the right artist. That money will come, as far as I can see, from my labor. I’m working hard so that, God willing, one day I can do the thing I am really passionate about, but the dream seems so very far off. One step at a time.
Tale Told 