Monday Musings...

Why do We*  Write?

*(people compelled to pen their thoughts until eyes are strained and fingers are sore)

     The dirty dishes are stacked in the sink and along the edges and on the stove, they are all calling my name. 

     But I ignore their siren call. 

     My dog, Buddy, has left mini hairy versions of himself all over my house. If he doesn't care, I'm trying hard not to either. (I almost lose this battle and nearly pull out the vacuum.) 

     The living room looks like a toy store that has been hit by a tornado. Don't walk in there. 

    Yet, what am I'm doing...

    I'm writing. I can't stop and I think I'll growl if someones tries to interrupt me. But I'm nearly done with this short, sexy story I'm been working on for weeks now. I'm also wrapped up into my story of my old West horse rancher and big city singer. They're just about to overcome their fears to follow the dictates of their hearts and they're about to give in to the fires of their desires. 

     I don't even know if I'll be able to get it published but I write anyway. 

     Because I have to. 

     Sometimes I don't think being a writer is a choice. I think its something I have to do. A function akin to eating or breathing. 

     It's that serious. :) 

    I would simply shrivel up and die if I couldn't write. 

     Even if I don't reach my goal of being a published author, (although, I would cry for a while with the death of that dream) I wouldn't stop writing. 

     I simply couldn't. 

    Ask hero hottie. He knows. If I haven't had a chance to write in a while I become quite grouchy. 

    And no one likes grouchy me. :) 

    So let the dishes pile up a few extra hours and the living room be a mess but don't interrupt my writing. (Unless the house is on fire or you're hero hottie and you want to help research a scene with me.)