“When you’re working, when you’re writing, what’s in your mind?”
That was a stupid question. My work was in my mind. I worked because I needed to work, because I needed money to buy things, and writing was the easiest way I could imagine making a living. If there was something other than writing that would pay me more and allow me to continue living without alarm clocks, I would do that instead.
“Hate,” I said.
Fire is fueling me to write, and soon it’ll be pure passion.