The Real World

Don't laugh: For the longest time, when I'd read writers who were blogging about "the real world" getting in their way, I thought that there was some aspect of their plot that didn't conform to the laws of physics or the nation. Like those love scenes that require a three-armed contortionist.

Hey, I said don't laugh.

For me, writing is the real world, or at least, every bit as real as grocery shopping or laundry. I'm not here to be a hobbyist. I can say that the real world gets in the way of my knitting or my ability to go out with friends on Saturday night, or the number of Netflix movies I get through in a month. I'm busy with classes or my job or my health or personal pitfalls. But I can't take off from writing any more than a person can take off from work. Okay, you've got "personal" days at work. I've taken those. I feel sick, I stay home from work. No problem. But that's not the real world getting in the way. It's something else getting in the way of the real world.

This is hard to convince others of. My partner seems to think that since I don't have actual office hours and a commute, that I am free to run all the errands in the house. Um, no. When I look at the people who have become truly successful in their careers, they are always hte ones who treat writing like a job. They set goals, sit down in front of their computers and say, "I'm writing this many pages/until this time and I'm not getting up. I don't care if I'm 'not in the mood.'"

And that's how it has to be. Writing is my real world.