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I've been reading Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, which gives me hope for my own future as a writer. But then I come to work and spend my day putting out a thousand fires, completing a million mundane tasks which I know exactly how to do because I've been here long enough... but it's not what I want to do. I want to write write write. And not for someone else, not about insurance or parenting or why so-and-so should buy this or that product or why this company is really great and you should invest in it or buy its products. I want to write about made-up people.

The desire is stronger than the actual doing, though. I spend my time dreaming about writing rather than writing.

The essential dillemma of a writer, I suppose: how do you create a space in which you can write? How do you motivate yourself when there's no money in it, until there is? Writing is hell, and not writing is hell, and there's a fine line that is having written, and that is the best feeling in the world.