Never Enough Time
What are hobbies, exactly? They’re things that take time. Sometimes, too much time. Copious, extravagant amounts fully enabled by circumstance to derail anything improperly prioritized. (For me, that’s basically everything.)
I have a desk job, folks. It’s not the worst thing for a writer, but I’ve also decided to learn to play the piano after something like two decades of indecision on the matter. And of course, I must maintain a relatively strenuous aerobics regimen to keep my malformed heart in working order. I can do it–Rabbit Rue is proof of this–but doing so while making progress on my steadily growing “to read” pile is significantly difficult. I do it anyway, or I’d go insane rather quickly; I’ve been voraciously consuming fiction practically since I could lift a book, so why stop now?