I can’t be working. I’m doing this thing I love, not even sweating, no straw boss to bother me and not a pair of steel-toed boots in sight. How can I call this working?
Ask me again in a couple of hours when my brain fuzzes over, my face melts, my fingers feel about this long, and the neck and shoulders scream. Oh, yeah, plus an empty stomach ’cause I spent the last two hours essentially vomiting on the page.
Whoever said this creativity thing wasn’t work is completely full of it. Telling you tales. You may not get the calluses on your hands, but you’ll get them on your soul.
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