I'm all about accomplishing the goal. Heaven knows I am driven. But now that the goal looms there before me, I still have to deal with the mountain of laundry and ironing, the bills that need to be paid, the pets that need care, oh, and the husband and kids who still need my attention. At this point, the "work" involved in being a writer occurs long before any writing occurs.
Then there's the motivation issue. I have a friend I call Wheat. She and I have the same twisted sense of humor, the same slightly crooked way of looking at life. Ever since the day we met in 9th grade we've been writing. Little missives we called "notes" that turned into parodies of soap operas, kooky commercials, song lyrics gone awry, and odd romances. We connect in the written world. I suppose to put it in the mildest of terms, she motivates me. We have one of those relationships that allows us to pick up a conversation interrupted by distance and years, right where we left off. We can entertain our mutual friends and family with our quips and banter for hours. Our conversations are the stuff of brilliant sitcoms, but alas, none of it has been written down.
Since moving away from Southern California to the Midwest I do have other friends, and don't get me wrong, we have our moments. At least a few think I'm pretty clever with words, and I do keep them entertained. But I really haven't found anyone I can talk to that connects with my offbeat sense of humor. No one who can put a spark to the ideas that float through my head like Wheat can. (If you are reading this Wheat you'd better post a comment!) But, here's the thing, as funny as our notes and journals were to us 30 years ago, how does that translated into a story that is entertaining today?
I was hoping that this post would go somewhere, to answer that question for me, but alas, it is just a hypothetical question posted in cyberspace. More on this later.