I LOVE writing. I can work from home, which means I don't have to get dressed in a suit (I am in a T-shirt and velour trackie pants right now - YES, velour!). I don't have colleagues so I don't have to make polite conversation with anyone (I hate small talk, it's boring) and I can get up and wander into the kitchen whenever I want to have a snack or a cup of coffee or lie down on the floor and go to sleep (though I do try to do that on the couch).
Whenever something interesting or funny or bizarre happens to me (which is a lot, because I just have one of those lives) I make a mental note of it and then promptly forget all about it. But if I actually write it down, then I can turn it into a blog post or column as soon as I get home, and BAM, there's my work done for the day! You can't do that if you're a doctor or lawyer or one of those people who makes batteries for cars.
I HATE writing. I sit here alone in my office, with no-one to talk to, which is why I spend half my bloody life on Twitter. I hang around in trackie pants all day, which is utterly tragic, and sometimes I even forget to have a shower. And with no set lunch break, I eat on and off for most of the day, so that by the time it comes to dinner with the family I can do no more than pick on a lettuce leaf and regret the fifteen different meals I ate earlier on.
I have prostituted my life for my work. I have taken every experience I have ever had, every thought that has ever crossed my mind, and every opinion I have ever made, and turned them into a piece of writing to earn a bit of money. I have scraped the bottom of the barrel of my consciousness, searching desperately for scraps that I can turn into a story, constantly worried that I have exhausted the supply and that there are no ideas left. There are days I wake up and I have nothing. NOTHING. No experiences, no thoughts, no opinions at all. And I am desperate, utterly desperate. Bet that never happens to those people who make batteries for cars.
I fucking hate writing.
But I bloody love it too.