On Writing

I never really understand what compels people to write. I mean, I wouldnt mind the lifestyle of a successful writer. I always envision them living in quaint cottages in south of France where they walk down to the local cafe and order red wine and write masterpieces while inhaling the lavender scent of Provence. I have never been to Provence, of course, and my entire notion of how the place smells comes from some Pre De Provence soap I once bought. The truth is though, that it isnt the writing itself that appeals to me but the freedom I imagine can be had from such an occupation. If I am honest with myself, I would never write just for the sake of writing (other than this blog which is writing but isnt intended for a wide audience so it is different).

I was thinking about this for two reasons. One, I spent Saturday with an old friend and among other things, she mentioned that she writes screenplays. And Two, I pretty much spent the entire weekend at the lake and the thought occurred to me that if I were a writer, I could write from a lakeside deck and wouldnt that be nicer than working in an office all day? Or would it? Because writing is work to me. I enjoy it in small doses but if I had to make a living off it, I might be miserable. And is miserable on a lakeside deck better than miserable in a windowless office cubicle?