Picture This

For years, I've had this picture in my head. It's called "The Romantic Life of the Writer". I see myself sitting in a large room with hardwood floors. The western wall is all windows, overlooking the ocean. The north wall is bookcases and the entertainment center. Pretty and esoteric music floats through the air. The sun is shining, and cartoon birds circle my head.

As it turns out, being a paid writer looks nothing like that. There's an apartment with hardwood floors, but the windows look out on parking lots, a crack house or two and a McDonald's in the distance. I don't sit at the table - the chairs aren't comfortable enough. I lounge on the couch, laptop on my lap, foot pressed up against William's belly for warmth. None of these things are bad things, they're just not like I pictured them.

I thought I would feel different. Self assured. Giddy. Intellectual. I thought I could rest easy. Instead, things are pretty much the same. I still worry about the same things. I'm still (for the time being, at least) having trouble making ends meet. Thankfully, I'm still a dreamer. I close my eyes and I can still see the ocean. I can still see him, whoever he is. I can still hear the music, even if my fingers cannot yet play it.

So for tonight, I'll watch Penelope for the millionth time. I'll enjoy that amazing kiss and try not to think about spending the next two days at my day job because if I do, I'll have to break out the Xanax.

Watched: Penelope, August Rush