The longer I live, the more I realize that our lives are made up of a finite amount of time. There are only so many sunsets, only so many summers. There are only so many minutes in the day, and dammit I’m going to get my writing time in there somewhere.
I’m as yet unpublished, so I don’t expect anyone to take me seriously when I say “I’m a writer.” This means I have to barricade the door to my makeshift office to keep the zombie hordes out while I try to hammer a few words out each morning. OK, so it’s not really zombie hordes. It’s only a couple of little kids. Who I love. And my wife who looks so distracting in that soft cotton thing she sleeps in…
Where was I?
Right. There’s only so much time, and I’m neither getting younger nor less absentminded in my middle age. My God, I’ve got to get these stories out of me before I start to drool on myself and murmur and shuffle around in my slippers. I may only have a few years left before I’m on the front porch in my pajamas yelling, “Get off my grass, you damned kids!”