…of my dreams. For one week, I was a writer. I could tell people I was a writer. I could talk about stories, and books, and characters, and arcs, and plots, and themes…and not bore people to death (well, maybe I did bore them, I don’t know).
And everyone else was just like me…also living the life of their dreams. But sadly, I didn’t really belong in that life. That was a tantalizing taste, but just a taste nonetheless.
My ‘real’ life involves computers, and e-commerce, and manufacturing…and other stuff not nearly as exciting. My ‘real’ career contains no passion or love.
So I’m depressed. Really depressed. But you know, I guess this is what I needed to re-affirm my goals, my commitment to being ‘a writer’.
Just a taste. Nothing more.