Being a writer, for me, is not like being anything else. Most people have jobs that keep them busy from nine to five, or some other equation of hours within the twenty-four hour day. That usually is the case for a range of our population from garbage collectors to CEO’s of large corporations. If any of them have a bent for writing they need to work that into the spare hours that are left. If they are anything like me, they will be pulled in two different direction: the ying of having to put bread on the table and the yang of needing to write, to put words down on paper.
I am lucky in the sense that I don’t have to work at a job to put bread on the table, but I do have a ying that I battle constantly. My ying involves running a household, shopping for food, clothes, plants, paper goods, hardware, gifts, etc. etc. I pay bills, do bookkeeping, accounting, tax returns. I have doctor and dentist appointments, among others. It all is sometimes mundane and boring, and sometimes satisfying when its done, and even relaxing when it doesn’t take any amount of thinking to accomplish. Most important, it is necessary.
But then there is that yang that pulls me away from doing those ying things. It is my desire … no, my need to write. I write in my head as I drive my car or water my plants, or wait in line at the supermarket. I struggle to find the time to write as much as anyone who has a nine to five job.
The ying-yang goes on withing me all the time. I am not sure, but I think most writers must feel this as well.
