I think I only enjoy writing when I’m supposed to be doing something else.
Do the dishes? Just a sec. Let me jot down this idea.
The first short story I wrote that was good, I wrote while working as a security guard at college.
The short novel I published last year? I was probably supposed to be doing something else. I guarantee you, I contributed little outside of bill paying for a good three weeks. I remember looking up, and someone was making Thanksgiving dinner.
So, about this hiatus: I haven’t written jack in four days. Have I been busy? Sure. But that doesn’t matter. If I wanna write, I write. Everyone’s got the same number of hours in a day as Einstein or your friendly neighborhood stoner. My inner Einstein is a demon. He only likes to play when he’s not supposed to.
So, OK, fine. Tonight the demon gets half my sleep.
Show me somethin’, four eyes.