If only I were a novelist

I want to get away; it’s been far too long since my last holiday. It’s not the workload that gets to me – that I can definitely deal with; it’s the amassing bullshit, creeping disillusionment and growing cynicism that I’m worried about.

Some days I wish I were a talented novelist. It’s the only job I can think of which will allow me to slave away in solitude, just me and my laptop and the words that appear across the wide, white space. And until I’m ready, only when I feel like it, do I leave the peaceful haven of my home, where I am Queen, to meet and deal with the outside world. Unfortunately, I can’t even manage a novel, let alone pack any talent into it.

Some days I understand the appeal of having lots of money and knowing that you never have to work a day again in your life. Paris Hilton’s life, in other words. I don’t think I’d survive a month at home doing nothing, but knowing I never have to work and actually not working are two very different things. The former, I believe, will free me up to do the latter, except instead of doing solely that which brings the paycheck every month, I would be free to pursue whatever my heart tells me to. Now if only I can figure out that which my heart whispers to me.