Writer Life

I Write Like It’s My Job

Loving every minute of my new 9–5, 24/7

It’s Sunday and I just can’t help myself. I’m making pancakes — more like burning pancakes — while searching for an image to go with my next installment of TMI, a sex Q&A I created for Sensual: An Erotic Life.

I don’t know when the last time was I had so much fun. I’m juggling hot, too-dark pancakes over my laptop keyboard and smiling like a fool.

Delirium in writer’s heaven, the signs

1. Stories and articles, new and old, fly about in my gleeful noggin all the time. Words mean more, the trees have forest on them, and every night I go to sleep with a smile: I can’t wait to tap, tap, tap again the next morning.
2. I’ve been meaning to make meatloaf for three weeks. It hasn’t happened. Faster, less complicated meals are my bread and butter because it leaves me more time to write.
3. My dogs are revolting because they, too, are waiting for me to step into the kitchen. Their treat jar has naught but the dust of the treats gone before; believe me, they’re noticing.
4. Dishes no longer bother me. There aren’t any forks. Where are the forks? Oh, they’re right here, crusted with last week’s spaghetti.
5. My laundry lives in the dryer now. I went to the dryer this morning, picked out one pair of panties, and walked away, the door gaping wide like a judgemental bittie.
6. Time passes without my noticing. What time is it? What day is it? It’s NOVEMBER!? How in Santa’s jollies did that happen?
7. I have to put my laptop in another room to stop writing. It brings to mind an episode of Friends where one of the characters puts a book they’re reading in the freezer because it’s a scary novel, and it might come and get them if they’re not careful. It’s kind of like that, but getting caught by my siren’s-song-singing silver slab is much more enjoyable.

Today is no different

I know it’s Sunday. I can’t help myself. Weekends don’t mean much to me anymore. I sit to write in a different place, spend more time with my partner, and drink more wine, but my days are spent doing my favorite thing: dropping words onto a crisp page.

One by one, they string together to form sentences. Those sentences string together to form and weave thoughts that open myself and others to the big ideas I’ve kept inside for so long that I thought I might burst.

When I write, the words don’t build up in my mind. They come and go, leaving art in their path. They become. And then they spread. I love that.

I write like it’s my job.

I write like it’s my job, but I’m not making a living wage.

It’s okay. At this moment, it’s okay. I’m not making a living wage, so it doesn’t make much sense when I say I’m not bitter.

Sure, I’d like to make more money doing this thing that I love, but somehow — even sans income — I find more purpose in it than I’ve ever felt before.

I swell with pride whenever I publish an article and do my very own “50-clap dance”. (Because Medium doesn’t let me, I give myself IRL 50 claps, sway a bit, and shimmy in celebration.)

I hope that I’ll be sitting pretty with moderate cash flow doing my favorite thing in a year. For now, I’m content to write, publish, dance, and repeat with a community of writers doing the same thing.

I’m Brett Jenae Tomlin, The Anxious Enthusiast.

If you love, love, love my writing and want to shout out, “You get it, anxious girl!” You can contribute to my cookbook collection here or join Medium to put your own stamp on the web and the world. I get a little love if you use my link ^^