Happiness is waking up in the morning and being able to do exactly what one wants. Which, in my case, is writing.
Earlier, when I had let it become something of a chore, my writing gave me no happiness. But nowadays, I’m fascinated with getting under the skin of a rather confused, fat, young male cleaner at the Singapore aquarium, or a gay woman who has lived a long married life, or a man who, as a boy, saw his best friend drown.
I’m not working to any deadlines, but there is a sense of urgency, because I want to know what happens next, and only sitting down at my writing each morning would tell me. Serial writing, heh.
I am a serious writer, and like all serious writers, would like to be published, i.e. read. A writing is never complete without its reading, but for now, I’m enjoying the writing process too much to wonder about what happens to it later.
I’m not sure that is necessarily a bad thing?