My funny bone broke earlier today. I think it was while I was balancing all those spinning plates and hoops of flame on my hands, head and left hip. I knew today would be a bad day to wear my grey tweed heels, but did I listen to that inner voice of doom? No...

But I didn't stop over here to whine while I struggle to get enough words on the page to feel somewhat accomplished before my head hits the pillow. Well, not really.

There's just this little something I forgot along the way: to enjoy being a writer.

Every day, I get to write. Sometimes it's even stuff that I want to write and sometimes it's stuff that people have asked me to write that I don't mind writing since they're paying me to do it. Where the ideas come from changes with each new project. Where they lead me to is what keeps me in this wordsmithing game.

Is that what writing really is, a game? Something to be played at or mastered or, in the worst of times, lost?

Determining a winning round can be problematic as some base success on financial stability or a book contract (they don't go hand in hand, or so I've heard) while others are satisfied with the work they do that no one is allowed to see. The rules are as different as the players who keep returning to the keyboard with muses at the ready or on the lam.

How do you see writing?

Labels: writing