Life of a writer

Oh the irony!

I am watching myself get softer and flabbier by the day while I write well versed articles on health, nutrition and fitness for fitness websites.


Because I haven’t got time to work out, I just work. Last week I wrote an article on “Maximizing your morning fitness routine” after which I studiously attempted to get up fifteen minutes earlier every morning for three days and apply a few of my own tried and tested work out methods. It lasted for exactly three days. Why? Because you try working out when you’ve been working till 11:30PM the night before and then read a book for an hour as your special treat to yourself. (Special treats don’t include things like actual sex, because that would require a man which would require leaving the house which would require not being broke and having a baby sitter and NOT WORKING for an evening).

So my special treat is to read, provided I have had a chance for my special outing: The library.

But it’s not all that bad. I am doing something I essentially enjoy. I mean, okay so I have neither energy nor time to write for myself or my own blog, but I do get to write a lot of content for other people. And I believe that they are followed by masses of happy readers.

So I am like the incognito mystery writer who writes articles for people who have time to read them, like you. Or perhaps you are like me and you occasionally give in to an anarchistic streak and read something for pure enjoyment when you know you should be working or sleeping or writing.

I love to write though. I can’t imagine a life without writing anymore than I can imagine a life without water or air. It’s what I do. It’s how I express myself. Writing is just who I am. You don’t choose to be a writer, it just becomes more and more obvious that if you don’t write you will shrivel up into a dried out soul prune and die.

Now if the publishers would just buy my book and maybe put down a nice little advance for the rest of the trilogy I might just get to write something entertaining. Entertaining for me at least. No-one has been more surprised than myself by the sudden twists and turns that my book has taken, believe me. It’s a very strange thing, actually, writing a novel. It almost seems as if the story is not yours, you don’t make it up. It’s already there and your job is just to tell it. Often you are completely surprised by what happens next.

The fact that one should have to make money from one’s creative work does feel a lot like prostitution, though. Handing someone my freshly finished manuscript for a book is like standing stark naked in front of them and saying “Please tell me I’m good enough for you to pimp me out”

Except in some ways its worse. Because your naked body is one thing but usually whoever is seeing it does so by choice.

Your freshly written manuscript is a direct exposé of your inner self, your personality flaws and your intelligence (or lack thereof ) and you are pushing it onto someone in a desperate hope that they might just find it good enough to look at. Writers are intellectual coat-flashers.

And all the while I am writing this aware that I am supposed to be doing an article on electric heaters and another on what your tongue says about your health, which will be published by someone in Singapore and read by someone else in Canada (while having been written by me the South African) all of whom are pretending for the sake of the article to be Americans.

Anyway, must dash, will attempt to think of something more soulful and witty to write soon. Right now am too aware that I should be writing for paying customers, not sluttishly flashing about my own ideas!

I love you and I miss you, trusty followers. Soon I shall write to you again about why Cape Town is the only (South African) city I would ever want to live in and why traveling with strangers is the only way to do it, and maybe even a little on why you should dance with cute boys in foreign cities, every so often, just to make sure that you are still, in fact, a pretty girl. Even if you are tired and stressed and are surgically attached to your laptop, or the stove, or both, simultaneously.

All I can say is without coffee I would be a lesser person. And much, much less writing would take place.

Thank you for the image!


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