My job is two hours and fifteen minutes from where I live. It used to be three. No, I didn't move closer, and the job site sure as hell didn't move closer to me. I just found a better route home, is all. (The way the trains and buses meet up, getting home used to take three hours.)
So during the week I'm little more than a zombie who works, sleeps, and eats. I don't do anything interesting during the week. And I pretty much hate it.
Weekends I write. I do try to write on the train, but in the mornings, I'm too exhausted (I leave by 6 a.m.). At night, I just want to read on the way home.
I just read through a story I recently wrote. I thought I would wince—I usually find reading my first drafts painful—but I found myself pleasantly surprised. My story-telling skills leave something to be desired, but I liked much of the word content.
I have a whole philosophy on writing, you see. I believe there are good storytellers, and then there are good writers. Dostoevsky, for example, was an excellent writer, but a horrible storyteller. JK Rowling is a frocking great storyteller, but her writing is so-so.
There are very few writers who can do both. Stephen King is one, although his writing can be uneven. Neil Gaiman is another. I think he's both a great writer and a great storyteller. Gene Wolfe, a writer who makes the rest of us want to impale ourselves on our pens, is both a great writer and a great storyteller. You remember the words and the story.
For me, right now, I think I'm a pretty good writer and a beginning storyteller. Which means I'm a rather lousy storyteller. I think I need to analyze more when I read, instead of letting things just soak in. Osmosis is fine. Photosynthesis is fine. But I think I've been avoiding analysis. No, I have been avoiding analysis.
So. Gotta go do some analysis. Also, my computer is getting wanky—a sign I need to shut down for the night.
Good night, and good luck.