Writing vs. Working

Since a time beyond even my first real memory, I have loved books. I knew in Kindergarten that I wanted to be a writer. My very first short story, presented to my class for show and tell, was only illustrated by me; my father had to write the words, because I just couldn't do it legibly yet. It was titled "The Raindrop Who Didn't Want It To Rain". That story was the first step on a long and winding road, one that has been full of pot-holes, construction cones, and rambling detours through unknown country. But it has also been a road full of wonders. Many of you know the feeling- those days when every word seems right, and the pages are flying by, and the world you've created is so real that the reality passing by outside your head pales and becomes a dull, second-rate attraction at an aging amusement park. On those days, writing isn't work. On those days, writing is pure pleasure, an experience like nothing else in the world.
Then there are the other kinds of days. Days when you're engaged in a fight to the death with your own mind, clawing and kicking, while the white space on that page mocks you like a duplicitous lover. Maybe you're the kind of writer who sets goals- five pages a day, or whatever. I don't really do that, because it makes it like work. For me, setting that kind of goal takes away the magic. Maybe I get five pages done today. Maybe I only get one. Maybe I don't get to work on my new project at all today because I'm trying to edit something, or promote something. I might only write a blog entry one day. But whatever I might do, I want to enjoy doing it.
I want to write, not work. This isn't a business, or a factory. This is about building worlds full of magic.
We are the song singers.
We are the dreamers of dreams.