I just want to write.

I just want to write. Today, tomorrow, every day. That’s not even a complete sentence and quite frankly, I could care less.

People are driving me bananas. Yes, you heard me correctly. Just color me yellow and call me Chiquita. I’m there.

I think the part of what I don’t get is that people don’t understand that writers are artists. Sure, they are things I can write right off the top of the old noodle. I’m great at someone giving me a topic and writing on command, it pays the bills.

But, if I’m writing, no matter what it is, fiction, non-fiction, I need time to write. Not just write. But I need time to research, to process, to outline, to think, and right now, I’m not getting that.

I’m frustrated.

While I don’t want to offend the people I know, I  just want to sit around in my underwear, drinking green tea, writing inhaling nibbling milk dark chocolate.

Is that too much to ask?

Writers are creatives. We can’t talk on the phone and write. We can’t answer 100 gazillion emails and write. We can’t fix every problem and write. We can’t go out for coffee and write, unless it’s with other writers who respect our need for contemplation and quiet.

We. Just. Need. To. Write.

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