One of the things I’ve learned in the past couple years is that being a full time writer is less romantic than I would have thought. That’s something you hear a lot from writers – I always assumed they were just being cool – but it’s true. I can count on one hand the hours I’ve sat in a dark cafe and scribbled in a leather-bound notebook with a bottle of whiskey at my side. The ugly truth is that I wake up at five in the morning with ideas for a line or two in my head. I know it will be a waste of time to try to go back to sleep, and I know that if I don’t write them down immediately they’ll be lost forever. So I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the office. Four hours and a couple hundred words later (if I’m lucky) I realize I haven’t eaten or had coffee. So I drag myself into the kitchen in a low-blood-sugar stupor, pour a bowl of whatever cereal is left, make some coffee, and take it all back to my desk, where I sit for another four hours or so until my eyes feel like two hollow holes and my back is sending hate messages to the rest of my body.
Now, it’s one or two in the afternoon. The coffee buzz has abated. I find myself in boxers, unshaven. The dog is morose. There’s nothing for lunch except cereal. Bills are piling up. Emails are unanswered. And blogs are ignored… this is all a roundabout way of saying, “Hi Blog, sorry it’s been so long. What’s up?”