I fantasise about quitting all the time. I storm into human resources, slam my notice down on Adam’s desk, say something witty and cutting, then spin on my heels and strut out of there like I’m King Arthur. On my way out of the office I sweep my colleague Megan off her feet and into my arms before heading to the stables, where I steal one of the company horses and ride off with my love into the sunset. I hear the staff applauding and cheering from the windows as we disappear over the horizon.
She could only watch him, silently noting that she should be doing something to help him, ease his suffering somehow, but she couldn’t. All she could do was feel shades of some sort of compression. Time passed. All those moments and days and everything in between seemed to just press together, bound with dreamless sleep.
I do have a writing routine. Monday through Friday I go to work from eight to three then I come home, eat, and afterwards write. I usually write until 11. On weekends I wake up, eat breakfast, write for three/four hours, take a shower, eat again, then write for the rest of the night. Once I finish a piece, I edit it with the same routine.