Whether or not I become an overnight literary 'success' -- I'd find it almost impossible to retire. From the next book, the next short story, the next stanza or the next article. From a way of life that has taken its toll -- on my marriage, my social life (whatever the hell that is), and even a good chunk of my sanity. Even through an open door I see chains. And the chains are paragraphs and stanzas; smells and voices and screams and laughter.
I can quit the education business. But I can't stop listening. To the voices in my head that demand I take dictation.
Which of my jobs can I afford to lose? At school, I'm at least sane. And when that's gone...?
Fuck. I just want to stop. And smell the coffee. Or the fish. Or whatever it is my wife is wearing. Before it's too fucking late.
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