The weirdest part about it is how often I wish I could be inside my make believe world when I'm out in the real world, doing other things. It has nothing to do with not enjoying reality. I do. But when I'm really feeling "on" with my manuscript, which I am right now, there's not much in this world I'd rather be doing than working on it.
And often - very, very often - real life prevents that.
That's OK. I mean, it is what it is. I'm not a person who can, or even wants to, shut myself away from society to write. I get the occasional urge - usually at the end of a loooong day when I've got twelve other things on the to-do list before I can sit down at the computer - to get away for a little while, to rent a cabin in the woods for a few days and snuggle up in front of a crackling fireplace with a glass of wine and my laptop. But the practical side of me shuts that urge down before it can get too out of control. Cabins in the woods aren't actually all that appealing to me without other people to share them with. Funnily enough.
The thing is, I'm busy. I'm sitting here looking at the start of a veeeery busy weekend, and that's what has me musing on this topic. Real life isn't going to lend much time for writing and editing this weekend, and again, that's OK. This weekend, life's poignant moments won't be playing out on page, but in real life, in real time, in living color. With the people I love. So the Land of Make Believe will just have to wait.
I write to live, but I don't live to write.