To be a writer means to hunt for time.
It means to be unsociable, hard to find, snarky and sulking. It means to turn down invitations to go out, openings to conversation, not to care about going for long walks in the autumn or spring, not to care if the house needs cleaning or there is nothing to eat for lunch.
It means to live in a world apart. And not everyone can understand that. They also don’t understand why the writer becomes upset if they interrupt what seems like a trance (the author stares at the computer screen, fingertips hovering over the keyboard, frowning) to ask a question or offer a slice of cake.
To be an author is to be difficult, remote and weird.
The alternate reality in which the author lives keeps pulling, like a magnetic force, at the author’s mind and thoughts. The keyboard becomes a magic wand, the screen a preview of a different life.
So are authors dissatisfied, bitter individuals who hate this world of ours?
Maybe authors are weak. Maybe they don’t want to face reality.
Or maybe they just need some time off from time to time – time to dream and create, time to fly.
Who wouldn’t? Tell me, if you could escape, wouldn’t you take the chance?