I think the whole “being productive” thing would be so much easier if I didn’t have this silly compulsion to write. I’d free up buckets of time to, say, fix my car, paint the house, get my office out of boxes, finish off that bit of yardwork that has become an eyesore for the neighbors… I could be the model of efficiency. My brain could be fully used towards each task at hand, instead of juggling stories and characters. My attention would never waiver, as I would not have prose and idioms flitting about my head, drawing my eye like so much shiny tinsel.
And alas, if I gave up writing, I could finally hang my Grammar Nazi uniform in a dark corner of my closet and let it be.
If only such things were meant to be. If only the sweet music of the keyboard did not tickle my ears so.
If only I could have my cake and have someone else bake it too.