I still want it. To be a writer. I still believe in it. But I need time to swim, to flounder, to experiment, to stop and start and get nowhere fast. I wish I was that dog on the news, the one (actually I have heard this kind of story before) who fell into the water off a boat, and was taken for lost but swam and swam, determined to get to shore to reunite with its owner.
I wonder if that’s why we write? To reunite with our owners.
I’ve always wished I was someone other than myself, maybe that’s why I like to write, but not sure I ever wished to be a dog before. Dog’s can’t write, but you know what I mean.