WRITING WILL TAKE OVER YOUR LIFE!!!

It’s true.

It’s not bad, but it is true.

Before I began writing with my group, the Thursday Night Writes, I was happy and carefree. I’m still happy, but the cares, oy vey.

I had hit the floor running with a full length cozy. Now, six years later, I find myself staggering along with the same cozy. Sure it’s improved, I can see that, but I want it done. I want to stop thinking about it and I can’t. It preys on my mind constantly.

What should I do about it? Finish it, you say? I don’t have time to finish it.

This lack of time is problematic to say the least. What I need is an unlimited amount of time. Away from home and distractions. With meals brought on a tray. Well, maybe I’ll need to get the food myself, but there will be a tray, I’m sure.

The perfect solution appeared to me in a stressed out moment. I needed good quality jail time. Not prison, not anything longer than six months, just a half year stint in a upscale jail.

When I presented my idea to the group they thought I was surely jesting. Our resident ex-cop was aghast. I wanted to know what crime I could commit that would land me in swanksville for half a year. I knew how jails operated. Three square meals a day, semi-private room, exercise time, and privileges for good behavior.

A class B misdemeanor was what I wanted. It’s less than a felony, and quite possibly after my book was done I could get a good lawyer to have my misdemeanor expunged. Maybe I could pay off said lawyer with my royalties. Hmmm.

A class B could be shoplifting, or possibly drunk driving, among other things. These two are the most popular. Jean Valjean got a heck of a lot longer sentence for nicking some bread for his starving sister and her child, but we live in a more enlightened age. Six months, tops.

Or, if I were to say the F word in court, especially if I directed it at the judge, I could get six months. I’d have to be in court for something already, and this plus that would make my time add up to possibly longer than I’d intended.

The closest I ever got to jail was long before I began writing. More recently I rolled through two stop signs and was pulled over by a distinguished gent with a badge. I tried to bribe him with some freshly baked baklava. He could smell it as soon as I’d rolled down the window, but he was having none of it. He let me off with a warning. A verbal warning, not even one in writing that I could contest in court and perhaps have the opportunity of using the F word.

Possibly a simpler solution to my problem is simply to let writing take over my life. Imprison myself at home, handcuff myself to the desk, hypnotize myself into foregoing snack and meal breaks until the cozy is done.

Ah, then revision. There’s the rub.